As the chaos finally died down, the air lightened and the atmosphere calmed. Zib adjusted his alchemist lab coat and took a breath, regaining what little composure he had left. Then, with a proud (and slightly nervous) nod, he turned and gestured forward.

"This way, ladies. To the potion storage."

He walked ahead with purpose, leading them through a winding corridor with metallic walls lined with pipes humming faintly with mana flow. The distant sounds of hissing steam and glowing sigils gave the place a strange fusion like old magic woven into futuristic tech.

Finally, they stopped before an enormous circular vault door... at least three meters tall. lined with shifting rings of glowing magical inscriptions. Dozens of layered arcane circles spun in slow, quiet motion, each humming with ancient security seals and high-tier enchantments.

Zib stood confidently in front of it and cleared his throat.

"Let me in."

Dila and Fran stopped behind him and blinked at the vault in confusion.

"...Huh?" they both muttered in unison, exchanging a glance.

Then suddenly, a mature, robotic-sounding woman's voice echoed from the arcane system:

"Access granted. Voice recognition confirmed: Alchemist Zib."

A hiss of escaping steam burst from the edges, and the giant vault began to shift—circles unlocking, rotating one by one until a loud clunk signaled the final seal opening. The doors slowly peeled apart, revealing the interior.

What awaited inside stunned them both.

Rows upon rows of gleaming metal shelves stretched into the distance, each stocked with colorful potions in sealed crystal vials. Some shelves extended high above the ground—too high to reach without aid. And flying among them were floating rune drones small and Powerful, spherical orbs etched with glowing lines, calmly scanning each shelf, checking every label and measuring the mana consistency of the potions.

Soft hums and beeps echoed throughout the vast chamber.

Everywhere they looked, there were lights. gentle blues, warm ambers, and vivid greens including other mix colors. coming from the potions themselves, all neatly arranged and glowing like stars in glass bottles.

Fran's jaw dropped slightly. "Whoa..."

Dila slowly stepped forward, her dress swaying softly as she turned in place, eyes wide at the sight.

(This... is ridiculous,) she thought, blinking up at a hovering drone passing by.

She squinted at it, then at the rune-crystal scanners flickering near the ceilings, then at the conveyor tubes delivering potion ingredients across the room.

Her face twisted into a deadpan stare.

(Seriously... this world… gets more sci-fi every damn day.

Vaults with voice locks? Drone-crystal scanners?! WHAT EVEN IS THIS?

Are we in an alchemy lab or a spaceship??)

She glanced to the side, watching a potion being auto-corked, levitated, scanned, then filed into a hovering tray.

(Next thing you know, they're gonna invent mana credit cards and hover boots.

I swear, I accidentally left the Earth to be in a fantasy world—not upgrade into wizard-tech chaos 9000!)

She turned back to Fran, who was currently trying to poke at a floating drone with her finger.

"Fran," Dila said with a sigh, "...please don't."

Fran pouted. "But it's blinking red! What if it's a boss monster?"

The drone beeped in protest and floated higher.

Zib, hearing the commotion, turned around. "Please don't disturb the scanning units! They're extremely expensive!"

Fran saluted half-heartedly. "Aye aye, Vault Commander."

Dila just shook her head, muttering, "...This place is insane."

And yet, a small grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Then Dila took a slow step forward, her silver-white hair glinting beneath the hovering drones. Her eyes scanned the chamber like a seasoned tactician choosing her weapon of choice before a war.

She stopped, toward Zib, a small smirk still tugging at the edge of her lips.

"Show me what you got, Zib," she said with calm authority.

"I'm not here for basic tonics or glittery throwables. I need impact—something that can obliterate powerful beings… even that old fart I once knew this morning."

Her voice lowered, sharp as frost. "I know how strong he is. But I want enough potions to bury him beneath layers of glass vials until he chokes on mana fumes and glitter dust. Stock me up... I'm done holding back."

Fran flinched slightly, her cat ears twitching from the sudden shift in mood. The joke was gone. Dila wasn't playing this time.

Zib froze, his hands mid-motion as he reached for a panel. His eyes darted side to side as if searching for a way to redirect the tension. Then, with a nervous gulp, he lightly tugged at the cloth near his collarbone, trying to loosen the imaginary tightness in his robe.

"Umm… Princess," he said carefully, avoiding direct eye contact, "w-would you please… try to show a bit of respect? Even just a little? He… your father, King Albedo… he is the only one you have left, isn't he?"

His voice wasn't scolding—it was quiet. Heavy.

For a moment, the room felt colder.

Dila's smirk faded. Her eyes, a deep blue like frozen glass, narrowed slightly. She turned away, her expression distant now—closed.

"…Sorry," she muttered softly. "I don't respect people that i just know."

There was no venom in her words, but there was no warmth either.

Just truth.

Hard, quiet truth that cut deeper than any spell.

Zib's face fell, his usual nervous humor slipping away. He looked down, clutching the edge of a nearby shelf to steady his thoughts. The hovering drones above continued their silent patrol, unaware of the emotional weight drifting through the chamber.

Fran glanced between them, ears low. Even she didn't speak.

And for a moment… the potion vault was silent.

Dila stood still, her gaze lowered—burdened not by what was ahead, but by what she had missed.

With a slow breath, she turned toward Fran, her voice low and sincere.

"Fran… I'm sorry I couldn't make you a potion earlier," she said. "Because of that… accident. Everything just… spiraled."

Her words trailed off. Guilt clung faintly to her tone, like dust on silver.

Fran didn't answer right away.

She lowered her ears and slowly stepped forward, her boots making the faintest taps against the ground. Her expression, usually so bright and full of mischief, was now shadowed. quiet, unreadable.

Then, without a word, she wrapped her arms around Dila.

Tight.

Unexpected.

Dila's eyes widened slightly, her body tensing.

Fran's voice came out in a hushed whisper, soft but trembling like a barely held breath.

"It's fine by me, sister…"

She held on tighter.

"As long as I'm with you.... no matter where you go… or what journey you take… even if it's into death itself—I'll follow you."

The words weren't poetic. They were raw, sincere. Childlike and unshakable.

Dila blinked, caught off guard. She gently returned the embrace, her hand resting lightly against Fran's back.

"…Don't say that," she whispered. "We're not going to die."

She pulled back just enough to meet Fran's gaze and offered a faint, hopeful smile.

"We will make it. The two of us."

Fran looked up at her, eyes a little wet but filled with something fierce.

A fragile smile formed on her lips.

"Yeah… I know, Sister…" she murmured.

Then her tone became serious.

"But… promise me you won't get hurt badly again. I… I can't stand seeing you like that…"

Dila's smile wavered.

For just a moment, she hesitated. A flicker of pain crossed her face—but only briefly.

Then she nodded softly, brushing a strand of Fran's hair aside with care.

"…Promise," she said.

And in the gentle glow of that strange potion-lit vault, two souls—so different yet bound by something stronger than blood stood quietly in each other's warmth.

Suddenly...

From the far end of the vault past the glowing potion shelves, past the hovering crystal drones and alchemic mist—Zib's voice rang out, echoed softly through the chamber like a reluctant bell in a quiet church.

"Sorry to interrupt..."

He stood near a special rune-stabilizing platform, the edges glowing with faint blue circuitry etched into the stone. His voice carried across the wide space as he added, "But I've selected a specific potion… if used correctly, your chance of winning might rise… to around fifty percent."

Just fifty.

He clutched the side of his right arm, his expression drawn. He didn't look confident in his own words—only honest, maybe a little guilty. As if he, too, hated those odds.

Dila let go of Fran gently and slowly turned her head toward him.

Her eyes shadowed over. Her lips pressed into a flat line, trembling slightly. And then—

Her right fist clenched, knuckles whitening.

Her face reddened—not from embarrassment, but from silent rage, barely contained.

Her thoughts came in like a rush of thunder behind her eyes, her inner voice bitter and cracked.

"Damn it… why can't we just win—straightforward? Just once…"

"So I can leave this stupid kingdom… and that stupid fake father."

"I'm not Dila… not ever… I don't even know what my real name was."

"But even so… I want freedom. Not fate. Not someone else's obligations."

Her teeth ground together. Her fist remained tight, trembling.

The weight of it all—her lineage, her name, her fear, her past it dug into her like jagged ice.

From across the vault, Zib saw the way she stood, the way her shoulders rose stiff and tight. He didn't call out again, but his eyes held worry. Quiet, helpless worry.

Then—Fran.

Softly, gently—she stepped forward.

She wrapped her arms around Dila's waist from behind, resting her cheek against Dila's back like she was listening to the girl's heartbeat.

Fran was warm.

Steady.

Real.

Her voice came softly, muffled against the fabric of Dila's dress.

"Sister…"

Dila froze.

"…We'll win. So don't worry about the future, okay?" Fran whispered, voice delicate, the words nearly breaking. "Just because the future is uncertain… doesn't mean it's dark. There's still light. Maybe just a little. But even a glimmer… even once… is enough."

Dila's fist, still clenched, slowly began to loosen.

Her jaw un-tensed.

She didn't speak—but the grinding in her chest eased, even just a little. Her eyes were still dim, still distant, but her breathing softened.

She placed her hand lightly over Fran's on her waist… holding it.

Not with strength.

But with something smaller.

Something fragile.

Maybe even… a little hopeful.