CHAPTER 653: [EVENT] [THE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST] [END] ANASTHARA DOLPHIS

The air turned heavy as a thick, blackish smoke erupted from the shattered shell, curling through the sky like ink dropped into water. It spread quickly, engulfing everything in its path until the world beyond became nothing but a swirling void.

Instinctively, everyone shut their eyes against the sudden darkness, but their ears betrayed them—sharp cracks echoed, the brittle shell of the egg giving way piece by piece until all sound faded into a chilling, unnatural silence.

No one dared to speak.

Not a single breath broke the stillness.

Then, from behind the veil of dissipating smoke, a figure began to materialize where the egg had once stood. At first, it was just a silhouette, curled on the ground with knees pulled tight to the chest. Her face was buried in her arms, her posture neither hostile nor calm—just... still.

But something was wrong.

A thick, black substance seeped slowly from her pale skin, pooling beneath her on the cold stone like a shadow melting into reality. It oozed silently, alive and viscous, spreading out like a stain against the world.

After what felt like an eternity suspended in breathless anticipation, the figure stirred.

With unsettling grace, she rose to her feet.

Her hair—a long cascade of silvery black—fell over her back in gentle waves, reaching all the way to her knees. Even in the haze, it shimmered faintly, like strands of moonlight dipped in night.

Gulps echoed among the assembled knights.

There was no mistaking it now.

It was a woman.

She stood completely bare beneath the smoke, but the thick veil of darkness still clung to her body, swirling in just the right places to obscure her most intimate parts.

And then the smoke thinned.

A single, audible gasp escaped one of the knights, quickly followed by others. The sound rippled through the silence.

She was—without exaggeration—the most beautiful woman they had ever seen.

She appeared to be in her early twenties, and her beauty was not the kind that inspired warmth or longing. It was haunting. Terrifying.

She didn’t look real.

Her skin was smooth and porcelain-white, pristine save for the jagged black markings etched along her face, arms, and—judging by their patterns—across her entire body. They looked like ancient runes carved in ink, pulsing faintly.

Her eyes remained closed as she tilted her face to the sky, inhaling deeply as though savoring the air of the world for the first time in centuries which couldn’t be more true.

Then she moved.

One bare foot shifted forward, pressing softly against the ground—and in that instant, the tension among the knights snapped taut like a bowstring. Hands hovered near hilts, eyes locked on her every movement.

But still, none dared to act.

From above, a figure descended.

Nikolas Tepes landed before the woman. Without hesitation, he dropped to one knee, lowering his head in silent reverence. From the void, he produced a a long, dark robe—and offered it to her with both hands.

"Welcome back to the world of the living," he said, his head bowed respectfully. "Deborah Dolphis... or should I call you—"

"How many years?" Deborah asked, cutting him off as she reached out with fluid movement and took the cloak from his hands. She draped it around herself, her naked form disappearing beneath its folds.

Her voice was calm.

Emotionless.

Chilling.

But what sent true shivers down the spines of everyone present was not the sound of her voice—it was her name.

Deborah Dolphis.

The knights froze.

That name... it wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. It was myth. Legend. A whisper from the darkest Chapters of history of Sancta Vedelia.

Jefer was speechless.

He had heard about a forbidden resurrection. But he had dismissed it as insanity. A wild tale.

Until now.

"Two hundred and eighty-eight years," Nikolas said. "That’s how long it’s been since your death."

Deborah’s eyelids parted slowly.

Her left eye was a deep, luminous jade. Just below it sat a small beauty mark—perfectly placed, almost too perfect. In contrast, her right eye radiated an intense amber-gold glow, bright and burning.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

She didn’t seem human.

She didn’t even seem real.

Deborah tilted her head gently upward as she looked up again at the moon. Then her gaze dropped, slowly sweeping across the sea of armored knights who still stood motionless, paralyzed not by orders but by fear.

Some instinctively stepped forward, weapons twitching in their grips—but their bodies felt heavy, like the air itself was pressing them down. Their limbs responded sluggishly, as if something unseen whispered that any sudden movement might be their last.

Neither Brian nor Jefer gave any command to engage.

They just watched—silently, warily.

Deborah’s eyes then shifted again, this time to the towering figure of the Behemoth. The massive beast which now stood still, its posture lowered, head bowed meekly before her like a scolded pet.

Obedience.

Her dual-colored eyes flicked toward its mangled body—the left foot that had been severed, the jagged stump of a horn broken from its crown.

"This era," she mumbled softly, "seems to have... capable hands."

With a casual flick of her wrist, almost like brushing dust from a table, the air bent.

The air shimmered, and in the next instant, the Behemoth’s injuries mended before their eyes. Its sliced horn burst forth anew, glossy black and more robust than before. The lost foot regenerated in mere seconds, sinew and bone twisting into shape like time itself had reversed. Every scratch, burn, and wound along its colossal frame vanished.

Perfectly restored.

Not a spell. Not a chant. Not a sign of effort.

It was simply done.

Mouths fell open. No one could speak. They had witnessed miracles, but this... this was something else entirely.

Among them, panic began to bubble.

Celeste’s breath froze as her arms tightened protectively around Amael. He hadn’t spoken since Roda’s death. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t even flinched. He just sat there on his knees, motionless, his amber eyes staring at nothing. His cheeks were stained with the remnants of dried tears, his face hollow.

"A–Amael," Celeste said in a trembling voice, trying to hold back her own tears. She gently stroked his cheek, her fingers desperate, searching for any spark of warmth, any reaction.

"You have to wake up. Please—look at me..."

Still nothing.

He was there, but not truly.

She had never seen him like that.

"Amael!!" She cried again, louder this time, shaking his shoulders as panic clawed at her throat. The situation had gone from terrifying to catastrophic. Something deep in her gut told her—no, screamed at her—that the woman standing before them was far beyond anything they could handle.

"P–Please..." She sobbed, pressing her forehead gently against his, her tears slipping down and mingling with his dried ones. "Come back to me..."

And finally...Amael moved.

He slowly raised his head.

His neck felt stiff. His eyes, dull just moments ago, now glinted faintly with something raw—some fragile ember of awareness rekindling.

Celeste gasped.

"A-Amael..." She whispered. A shaky smile broke through the tears on her face, and she threw her arms around him in a tight embrace

But Amael wasn’t looking at her.

His gaze was fixed ahead—on the two figures standing beyond the haze: Deborah Dolphis and Nikolas Tepes.

He stared at them with the quiet focus of a man dragging himself back from the edge of despair but something deeper... something heavier.

"Has Xenos been brought back yet?" Deborah asked.

"Not yet, it seems. But they’re waiting for you."

That was all she needed to hear.

Without another word, without even a flicker of emotion crossing her face, Deborah turned and began to walk away, her long cloak swaying like ink across the ground. Her back remained straight. Her steps were unhurried. Indifferent to the countless gazes she was receiving.

"Where are you going...?"

Amael’s words weren’t loud. They weren’t forceful. But they were sharp—sharp enough to make every knight freeze where they stood.

They turned toward him in disbelief, eyes wide, mouths slightly parted in wordless protest.

What was he doing?

What was he thinking?

If those monsters wanted to leave, let them leave! That was the silent plea in their eyes. Even Jefer and Brian—usually calm and composed—were holding their breath, relieved that the terrifying woman was on her way out. Challenging her now would be like poking a sleeping god.

But Amael didn’t care.

Nikolas paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder. Deborah didn’t stop. She walked on, as though the voice calling to her was nothing more than wind rustling through grass.

Amael’s eyes, though, weren’t on her just yet.

They were locked on Nikolas Tepes.

With shaky legs and a blank expression, he began walking—dragging himself forward. Celeste moved with him, her arms still partly around his waist, her voice calling softly after him in confusion and concern, but he didn’t answer her.

Nikolas let out a quiet laugh when Amael got close enough to hear.

"The white wolf is dead," he said. "Is that why you look like death warmed over?"

Amael’s eyes narrowed. The hatred behind them was no longer hidden—it surged to the surface, a fury that Nikolas hadn’t quite expected.

It was... cold.

Too cold.

Nikolas’s smirk faltered for half a second.

"This is the way of things, Edward," he continued, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful. "This is the course of ordinary life. The cruelty of this world. You understand how unfair it is, don’t you? But what if that could be changed? What if someone could rewrite it all?"

He nodded toward Deborah’s receding figure.

"She can do that."

Amael didn’t respond immediately. His gaze followed Deborah now. She was already nearing Behemoth, whose enormous hand was slowly lowering to the ground to meet her.

Amael took another step.

"All of this...is because of you."

His fists clenched, knuckles whitening as he stared daggers into her back. Still, Deborah didn’t so much as flinch. She stepped onto the Behemoth’s massive palm, completely ignoring him.

"Deborah!" Amael shouted.

Still no reaction.

His body trembled with every suppressed memory—Cleenah’s face. Roda’s last moments. Every loss, every failure, every powerless second replayed behind his eyes like a curse on repeat.

And then he whispered it.

"...Anasthara."

Deborah stopped.

Her foot paused mid-step on the creature’s palm.

Amael noticed the reaction she showed.

He had noticed it how her body stopped. In the game, she had gone by another name. Anasthara. If Nihil had gone out of their way to include that name in the lore... it had to mean something.

He took a shaky breath. "Anasthara," he repeated, louder this time.

The woman slowly turned her head—just slightly at first, enough to glance over her shoulder.

Slowly, Anasthara raised her index finger to her lips.

"Shh."

It was almost gentle—if not for the dead stillness in her eyes. Her gaze, fixed on Amael, held no warmth. No curiosity. Not even malice. Just an empty, glacial calm that chilled deeper than rage ever could.

Nikolas cleared his throat lightly and stepped forward, as if to reassert context. "He is Edward Falkrona," he said. "The vessel of Samael Eveningstar. We’ve been ordered not to harm him. I don’t know the reason, but—"

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Anasthara turned her head just slightly, and Nikolas went rigid.

Her expression didn’t change. She didn’t scowl, didn’t glare. But that single, subtle glance was enough to silence him completely. It wasn’t fear he felt—not in the traditional sense—but something deeper. An instinct warning him that he had spoken too much.

She was telling him to be quiet.

And he obeyed.

"I do feel..." She whispered softly—almost to herself.

And then, she vanished.

In the blink of an eye, she reappeared right in front of Amael.

Celeste gasped, frozen in place. Her hand instinctively reached toward him—but before she could move, someone else already had.

A blade gleamed in the moonlight.

The sharp tip of a rapier pressed firmly against Anasthara’s back. Standing behind her wwas Elizabeth, her crimson eyes burning cold with murderous intent.

Her message was clear.

Don’t. Take. Another. Step.

"Lower your sword, Elizabeth," Nikolas’s voice came from behind, his own weapon drawn and aimed directly at her back. His tone carried none of the smooth charm from earlier. Just a warning. A deadly one.

One wrong move, and he would kill her without hesitation.

But Elizabeth didn’t budge.

Her attention was fully locked on Anasthara. She didn’t even glance at Nikolas.

Amael stood motionless between them, his expression hard. Despite the tension, he showed no fear. Only that same cold hatred simmering in his amber eyes.

Anasthara, for her part, remained composed. She didn’t even glance back at Elizabeth.

Instead, she raised her hand and reached toward Amael’s face.

The motion was slow. Delicate. Almost affectionate.

But the touch that followed wasn’t tender. Her fingers traced the edge of his cheek, featherlight yet invasive, as though she were studying the shape of his soul through his skin—dissecting him without ever breaking the surface.

Amael didn’t flinch.

But Elizabeth did.

She pushed the blade forward slightly, the steel piercing Anasthara’s skin. A thin line of dark blood spilled over the fabric of her cloak.

"Don’t touch him," Elizabeth said coldly.

Anasthara’s fingers froze mid-motion.

Then she slowly lowered her hand, letting it fall to her side without complaint.

Only then did she glance over her shoulder, her gaze brushing Elizabeth with faint acknowledgment.

"You carry Merithra’s blood," she murmured thoughtfully. "And he... he holds a Fragment of Nemesis inside him."

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, her grip tightening.

"You know nothing of me," she replied.

Anasthara gave a faint smile though it held no warmth. "Perhaps."

Then she turned back to Amael. "Come with me, will you."

It sounded strangely like a request.

But Amael had heard enough.

His grip on Trinity Nihil tightened, and without a word, he drove the blade forward—fast and true.

The divine weapon pierced her chest, sliding through bone and flesh until the hilt touched her ribs. The impact should have staggered her. It should have stolen her breath.

But Anasthara barely reacted.

No cry of pain. No shock.

She simply looked down at the blade protruding from her body.

"Trinity Nihil and..." Anasthara’s gaze shifted, her eyes settled briefly on the girl standing silently behind frozen, Celeste. "The Daughter of Nihil."

Amael clenched the hilt of his sword, his hands trembling as he pushed the blade deeper into Anasthara’s abdomen. A thin, dark line of blood escaped the corner of her lips, trailing down her chin.

She looked down at the wound, then slowly lifted her gaze to meet his.

"I am deeply sorry. Dear Sister."

-Spurt!

"...!" Amael’s eyes widened.

Blood suddenly burst from his chest in a violent spray, as if an invisible blade had carved through his very soul.

"W–What... ugh..." He choked, crumbling to his knees, disbelief written across his face as his sword slipped from his hands.

"AMAEL!" Celeste’s voice cracked into a scream, rushing to his side, hands frantically trying to stop the blood—so much blood.

Driven purely by instinct, Elizabeth lunged forward, her rapier plunging deep into Anasthara’s torso. But the moment the blade sank in, she regretted it and jumped away.

But it was too late.

-Spurt!

Agonizing pain tore through her chest as if mirrored by the very attack she’d made. Elizabeth gasped, staggering back, clutching at the sudden wound blooming beneath her ribs. She dropped to one knee, gritting her teeth. The sensation was unlike anything she had ever felt—raw, searing, unbearable.

Her crimson eyes glowed darker as she glared at Anasthara.

Crimson veins spiderwebbed across her pale skin. A wave of bloodlust erupted from her like a tempest, its pressure so immense that even Nikolas, who stood yards away, instinctively took a step back, momentarily taken aback.

But Anasthara didn’t move.

Instead, she raised her arm slowly toward Amael’s bleeding form where Celeste was desperately trying to mend him with shaking hands and broken sobs.

Elizabeth, despite the pain, reacted instantly—darting in front of Amael.

-SPURT!

"Ughn!" She cried as two gleaming white blades manifested mid-air and drove mercilessly into her chest. The force knocked the air from her lungs. Blood splattered across the floor beneath her as she staggered, barely staying upright.

"E–Elizabeth!!" Celeste screamed, panic cracking her voice as her eyes burned with white light. Her expression twisted in horror as she saw a Prophecy.

She reached toward Elizabeth, but—

-SPURT!

A third blade struck Elizabeth square in the center of her chest, sending her crashing to her knees. Her rapier clattered uselessly to the ground.

"NO!!"

Celeste shrieked tearfully.

From the shadows nearby, Jefer landed, just a few paces away—but froze instantly. His entire body stiffened when Anasthara’s bloodstained gaze locked on him with mechanical precision.

Her eyes slid back to Elizabeth and Amael—both bleeding, both dying—then, without another word, she turned and walked away.

Celeste stared after her, breathless.

"A–Amael!!" She screamed, her knees collapsing beside him. Her hands trembled violently as she tried to stop the bleeding, as she poured every ounce of Fate into his failing body—but it wasn’t working.

"No... no, no, no, please—Elizabeth—!"

Her gaze snapped to Elizabeth, who had barely moved. Her breathing was ragged, shallow. Her dress was soaked with blood, and her lips quivered faintly as her glassy eyes followed Anasthara’s retreating form who had already lost interest in all of them.

Then—slowly—Elizabeth turned her head toward Amael.

"D-Darling..." She whispered. With every ounce of strength she had left, she dragged herself across the blood-slick floor toward him, her hand stretching shakily until her fingertips brushed the side of his face.

She felt his pulse. It was weakening.

She leaned in, resting her head against his chest, listening.

"Elizabeth...?" Celeste called, confused.

But Elizabeth didn’t answer.

She stayed there, motionless for a long second, her pale ear against Amael’s silent chest. A quiet smile crept onto her bloodied lips.

"You are... so stupid, my Darling," she said softly. Her fingers, trembling, reached toward the massive wound in Amael’s chest, crimson seeping between them.

Amael stirred awake barely.

"W–What... are you... doing...?" His voice was hoarse as his hand rose weakly, wrapping around her wrist.

"My purpose... my meaning... has always been you," she said.

The smile she showed reminded him of the Elizabeth at the beginning of the year.

"D–Don’t..." Amael said but he was unable to muster more force to do anything.

Without hesitation—Elizabeth pulled out one of the blades inside her chest and turned the blade on herself, slicing her own wrist open. "Sacrificial Blood Arts..."

Amael was unable to hear more as his eyes blurred and closed.

That was the last time he saw Elizabeth alive.