The thorns thinned, but the path never truly cleared.

Leaves brushed their shoulders, wet from mist and dew, while the undergrowth whispered with every step. The deeper they moved, the more the light seemed to dim, as if the forest swallowed the sun with each breath they took.

Zeon, ever confident, pushed a branch aside with one hand and waved with the other.

"We're almost there," he called back casually.

Dila furrowed her brows. "Almost where?" she asked flatly, weaving around a crooked root that nearly caught her foot.

Zeon turned slightly, just enough for her to see the faint smirk on his lips. "To the secret arena, of course. Where else?"

His tone was dry—just enough sarcasm to make her want to throw a pinecone at his head.

Still, she said nothing. Just kept walking.

But something had shifted.

A soft gray fog began to rise from the ground, curling around their boots and ankles like ghostly tendrils. It thickened fast—first a veil, then a blanket. It drifted higher and higher, swallowing the trees in a damp haze until only the vague outline of Zeon ahead could be seen, like a shadow in smoke.

The air grew cooler.

Quieter.

Every crackle of a twig beneath their steps echoed unnaturally.

Then—Fran slowed.

Her cheerful humming had stopped. No skip in her step now. Just the tap of her boots as she hurried up beside Dila, her eyes wide and uncertain. Her small hand brushed against Dila's sleeve.

"I'm scared…" Fran whispered, her voice trembling.

Without turning her head, Dila extended her arm gently, letting Fran slip closer into her side.

The two walked in unison now, step for step.

The fog wrapped around them, chilling their breath. But Dila's voice came low—warm and solid, like a steady flame in a snowstorm.

"Don't worry, Fran," she said softly. "I'm here."

Fran clutched her hand tighter.

"I'm your big sister I'll protect you," Dila added, still not looking down—her gaze locked on Zeon's silhouette ahead. Her focus never wavered.

She didn't need to look.

Her presence alone was enough to shield Fran from the creeping fog and the shivering silence.

And though the mist thickened, the weight of her words was clear:

As long as Dila was here, Fran was never alone.

Not even in the middle of nowhere.

Not even in the shadow of the unknown.

Zeon's figure grew smaller with every step—his silhouette swallowed bit by bit by the encroaching fog. The silver mist coiled higher, swallowing the branches, the path, the world itself.

Dila's eyes narrowed. She could barely make out the curve of Zeon's red scarf flicking behind him.

"Wait," she called out, her voice calm but firm.

It echoed faintly—muted, as though the fog devoured even sound.

From up ahead, his voice came back—slightly distorted, distant, like a whisper in a cavern.

"We're almost there."

Dila stopped in place, boots sinking slightly into the damp moss below. She narrowed her gaze into the whiteness, visibly annoyed.

"You keep saying that," she said, her tone flat, but laced with worry. "And yet… nothing's happening."

Around them, the forest was eerily silent.

The birds had gone quiet. No rustling leaves. No wind. Only the thick, wet breath of fog rising like steam from the earth, turning everything a pale gray.

The trees around them became ghosts—faint outlines with twisted limbs fading into a blank canvas.

Then, in an instant, the fog thickened again—like a blanket being dropped from the sky.

Zeon's figure vanished.

Dila's eyes widened. She took a step forward.

"Zeon?"

Silence.

Nothing but the soft squelch of moss beneath her boots… and her own heartbeat.

She turned slightly, instinctively reaching out to Fran, who was still clinging close to her side. The younger girl's ears twitched anxiously, her tail curled tight. She pressed herself closer against Dila, clearly sensing something was wrong.

"Just stay close," Dila said quietly, almost a whisper, her voice half for herself, half for Fran.

They moved forward again, slowly—carefully.

Each step was cautious. The fog was so dense now it felt like walking inside a cloud, cold and wet against their faces. Their clothes began to dampen. Even the air felt heavy—like it carried a hidden weight, pressing against their chests.

Then—Dila raised her right hand, palm forward.

"Wait," she said again, this time sharper, more urgent.

Her hand trembled slightly in the mist, fingers outstretched.

Her brows furrowed. Worry lined her expression now, lips parted as if she wanted to say something else, but couldn't.

She looked around.

Left. Right.

Nothing.

No Zeon. No light. Not even the faintest sign of where they'd come from. The path behind was gone—swallowed like everything else.

"Where did he go…?" she whispered.

Her hand stayed in the air.

As if reaching for something that wasn't there anymore.

As if hoping he'd answer again.

But all that came back was fog.

As their boots pressed onward through the thickening fog, an unfamiliar sound echoed beneath their feet—clack… clack… clack… The muffled dirt of the forest was gone. Dila's eyes narrowed. She stopped, her silver brows furrowing.

"…Huh?" she muttered under her breath.

Beneath her was no longer moss and leaves, but the cold surface of ancient stone. Cracked pavement stretched beneath them now, worn by time and dust, echoing softly with every step.

Fran stopped too, her ears twitching. "Wait… weren't we just in a forest?" she said, glancing around nervously. "This place wasn't here… right?"

"I don't know the answer," Dila responded lowly, voice faint as she took in their new surroundings. Her eyes scanned the shifting fog.

Then, like breath leaving lungs, the mist slowly began to part. Thin rays of light began to pierce the veil, and as the haze dispersed, a massive coliseum unveiled itself around them.

An arena.

Dila raised her eyes upward, the mist swirling away into the dimming sky. The heavens had begun to deepen with twilight—the faintest purples and early stars flickering into view. The light that broke through illuminated the arena in a ghostly hue.

It was ancient, carved from rock and forgotten by time. The ground was coarse, uneven, dusted with fragments of broken stone and age-worn pillars. Moss clawed its way along the cracks. Empty spectator stands stretched high and wide in silence—completely void of life. No cheers. No voices. Just wind brushing through hollow stone.

"…No one's here," Fran whispered, stepping closer. "It's like a ghost town…"

And then—

"Yoo-hoo~!"

A distant voice echoed.

Dila turned sharply, eyes snapping to the source. Far ahead, through the dispersing fog, a figure was waving.

Zeon.

He stood proudly on the far edge of the arena, waving his right hand lazily like this was some sort of casual stroll through the park.

But her eyes weren't on Zeon.

They were on the man standing beside him.

Her breath caught. Her shoulders froze.

It was him.

King Albedo.

He stood tall, statuesque, his long white hair flowing in the windless air. His body—armored in black battle gear—showed rippling muscle beneath his garments. Steel cuffs wrapped around his wrists, sleek and ancient, glowing faintly with enchanted runes. His presence was heavy. Commanding. Regal.

But what stunned Dila most wasn't the sheer force of his aura—it was his expression.

He was looking at her.

Brows dipped in a worried arch. Not anger. Not cold distance. But something near to…

Worry.

That was a father's look.

And it shook her.

Her legs trembled slightly. Her hand gripped her her left shoulder tightly. She could feel it—an overwhelming pressure, the aura of a powerful fighter-mage, trained and blood-hardened, staring at her with a heavy silence.

Fran remained by her side, unusually quiet now.

Despite everything, the stadium… was empty.

No roars of the crowd. No soldiers. No audience. Just them. As if the arena belonged to the past, and they were ghosts trespassing through history.

"…What… is this place?" Dila whispered, more to herself.

And still, King Albedo's gaze never left her.

Something was about to begin.

And she wasn't sure she was ready.

Then the arena suddenly roared to life.

A burst of whoosh! echoed as the torches lining the stone walls ignited one by one, forming a fiery ring of light. The flames danced and hissed, casting shifting shadows across the ancient, cracked coliseum. Each flare ignited in rhythmic succession—woosh! woosh! woosh!—until every corner was bathed in a fierce amber glow.

Fran flinched at the sound, her ears twitching slightly. She turned sharply, her wide blue eyes scanning the sudden illumination. "Wha–What was that…?" she mumbled, clutching the hem of Dila's dressed. Her breath was shallow. "That scared me…"

Dila, however, didn't even blink.

Her gaze was cold, fixed toward the far edge of the arena where two silhouettes had become clear under the torchlight. Her heart was pounding—but not from fear. From what stood before her.

Zeon stood casually with one hand still raised in greeting, but it was the man beside him who stole the air from her lungs.

Her father.

King Albedo still has stood tall and commanding, yet his expression was still not one of pride—but of pain.

He stepped forward slowly, each movement laced with hesitance and sorrow. His voice, when it came, cracked like broken glass.

"Please… my daughter. Let us not resort to this."

He extended his hand, trembling, his voice heavy. "This path is dangerous… I might break you beyond repair."

His words hung in the air, hollow and haunting.

He halted a few steps ahead, his hand still outstretched. His regal posture faltered, sagging under the weight of regret and fear. Tears brimmed in his blue eyes, shimmering like dew in the firelight.

But Dila didn't move. Her expression was unreadable. Her silver-white hair gently billowed in the night breeze, her blue eyes narrowed under the soft light.

Her lips parted—not with hesitation, but finality.

"No," she said coldly. "I want my freedom."

A silence slammed into the arena.

King Albedo froze. His hand hung mid-air, helpless. The pain in his expression cracked wide open. His eyes widened. His chest heaved once—and then came the sound.

"NOOO!!"

His scream tore through the night, raw and shattered. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks, and he dropped to one knee, hand still reaching as if time might turn back.

Meanwhile, at a distance, Zeon tilted his head and narrowed his eyes slightly. His posture remained composed, arms now crossed—but in his mind, his thoughts churned.

"I might hate this old fart… but this father and daughter scene… god, this is too much. Even I can't handle this."

His lips curled faintly at the edge in an awkward grimace, but he said nothing. His role was not to interfere.

The only sound left was the crackle of the flames.

The arena, though lit, felt hollow. As if the torches only made the ghosts more visible.