After the terrorist attacks in Aerion, a period of hardship settled over the city like a heavy shroud. The city tried to rise from the ashes and dried blood, but it was weak and trembling, like a gravely ill patient.

Although the government, church, and army had made every effort to mobilize all resources to help the people, the city was still engulfed in a gloomy and mournful atmosphere.

In the most severely damaged neighborhoods, houses were being hastily repaired, with new plaster covering the scorched walls and makeshift materials patching up the punctured roofs.

At the relief centers, silent lines of people trudged forward to receive their bread and water. No one spoke a word, only quick glances at each other's rations before turning away. A child's cry of hunger was immediately stifled by his mother, who feared the looks of those around them.

The air was thick with the smell of wet plaster, sour sweat, and an invisible fear that weighed on everyone. Makeshift camps were set up for thousands of homeless people, who huddled together in cramped, lacking conditions. And although medical treatment for the wounded was free, their physical and mental scars could not be so easily soothed.

A small glimmer of hope appeared when Zephyros temporarily eased its military pressure on the borders. The secret pacts and covert agreements that Grand Marshal Karatyr had made, at an unmentionable price, had bought them a precious moment of peace, even though the public was unaware of it.

This was an opportunity for Zephyros to focus all its strength on solving its internal problems. Elite troops, hardened veterans, were recalled from distant battlefields not only to reinforce the security of the wounded capital but also to help the people rebuild their lives from the ruins.

Images of muscular soldiers, their faces still smudged with the smoke of war, carefully carrying frightened children out of dangerous areas were common. They shared their meager rations with the elderly and the lonely, which helped soothe people's fear and brought a sense of protection to those who were lost and desperate.

Despite the ongoing reconstruction efforts, the harsh truth was that many Aerion citizens no longer felt safe in their own homeland. Their faith in the protection of a powerful capital had been shaken to its core.

For a long time, Zephyros had harbored seeds of instability, and anomalies had become increasingly frequent. Heretical cults and dark guilds still operated secretly, luring lost souls, sowing doubt and division, and challenging the faith of the Church of the Radiant Angels.

The news that Aerion had been attacked was the final straw that broke many people's patience and endurance. A wave of emigration began, starting with small groups and then spreading, as people left Zephyros, looking for a safer future in foreign lands. The advantages and achievements that Zephyros had built during its glorious golden age seemed to be crumbling under the storm of the present.

Amid this gloomy backdrop, Henry and Sophia still went to the Estath Cathedral, despite its heavy damage, to attend a prayer service for Archbishop Ralph. In the ruined cathedral, with its smoke-stained walls and shattered pews, the two of them stood there alone, their hearts heavy with grief. The past few days had been a continuous mental torture for them.

The images of their close comrades falling, and their respected captain, their older brother, being turned into a mindless monster and then having to accept death as a painful release haunted them.

And after returning from that bloody battlefield, they heard that Archbishop Ralph, Sophia's spiritual father, had also been taken away, his fate unknown. For these two orphans, their pain was no different from that of those who had lost their dearest family in the battle for Aerion.

Despite all this, neither of them allowed themselves to sink too deep into negativity or let their grief swallow their will to live. Henry buried himself in his work at the Investigation Bureau, doubling, even tripling, his usual efforts.

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Sophia also tried to suppress her own grief. She went to the Estath Cathedral's charitable activities, helping the homeless and taking care of orphans alongside the monks and other volunteers. She tried to bring a little warmth and hope to those who were more unfortunate than herself.

The silence in their apartment was no longer as peaceful and warm as it used to be. It became a place heavy with unspoken sorrow, where the negative emotions they suppressed all day had a chance to flare up and torment them. During such times, Sophia would often lie silently in his arms, letting his familiar warmth and the steady beat of his heart calm her, making her feel less alone.

But that resilience could not always win. There were nights when her grief reached its peak, and she would cry uncontrollably in his arms. She cried for her lost friends, for the captain she respected as an older brother, and for Archbishop Ralph, her spiritual father who had taught and protected her since childhood, and whose fate was now a big question mark.

In just one day, the people who were closest to her, her spiritual pillars, seemed to have almost all disappeared. That grief was too big, too sudden, for a woman, no matter how strong, to bear.

"I'm here, I'm still by your side," Henry whispered, trying to soothe the pain that was tormenting Sophia, even though he was also struggling with his own obsessions. This was the third time, since the disaster, that he had seen Sophia cry like this.

He remained patient, giving her unconditional love and care, because he knew that only love and sharing could help them get through this difficult time together.

"Am I weak, Henry?" Sophia sobbed, her voice choked and broken. "I'm so scared. If you weren't here... I don't know how I could go on living. I don't have anyone else left in this world".

Henry could only hold Sophia tighter, letting her rest her head on his chest, feeling every sob of her heart. He didn't say anything more because, in these moments of weakness, all words of comfort seemed meaningless. His presence was perhaps the best way to soothe the pain that still lingered in her heart.

He let her cry until she was exhausted, and then she fell asleep in his arms, her long eyelashes still wet with tears. Henry remained still, not daring to move for fear of disturbing Sophia's rare and weary sleep.

That night, even though he was exhausted after a long day's work and the bottled-up emotions, he still couldn't sleep soundly. He had tried to work nonstop, training until he was exhausted, and when he came home, he spent all his time and attention soothing and comforting Sophia.

He constantly pushed himself to the limits of his endurance, both physically and mentally, but every time he tried to close his eyes, the haunting scenes of the battle for Aerion, the images of his comrades falling, would come back, clear and vivid, tormenting his mind.

The feeling of helplessness once again completely consumed him. It had been more than three days since the disaster, and Henry hadn't had a single night of more than two hours of continuous sleep.

Just before dawn, when the first weak rays of a new day began to creep through the cracks in the door, Sophia woke up groggily. From Henry's heavy and uneven breathing, she knew he had been awake for most of the night, and she wasn't sure if he had slept at all. She sat up, trying not to make a sound.

Henry also opened his eyes, looked at Sophia, and gave a tired smile. Both of them understood that the long, tormenting nights and restless sleep would likely continue. But at least they still had each other.

Henry stood alone on the quiet training grounds. The wooden post was deeply scarred with countless cuts.

At first, Henry's sword swings were precise and decisive, befitting a Rank 3. But after only a few moments, his swings became heavy and clumsy, losing their sharpness. The force was there, but his mind wasn't. Images of the tragedy swirled in his head. He saw the horrified eyes of Aerion's people, the cries of orphans, and the image of his captain, Jacobs, falling under Beleth.

A feeling of intense fury rose within him, consuming his reason. He had trained for a decade and overcome countless challenges, but when faced with death and cruelty, he was still just a helpless child. His sword swings grew faster and stronger, but they also became more and more inaccurate. With every strike, he wasn't hitting the wooden post; he was hitting the resentment and helplessness that tormented him.

"DAMN IT!" he roared. His sword swung wildly, striking down in a frenzy, no longer following any rules or tactics. His eyes were bloodshot, and his whole body trembled. He poured all his strength and fury into one final strike.

CRACK!

The sound of shattering metal echoed shrilly through the silent training grounds. His sword had broken in two. The blade, still sharp, was lodged deep in the wooden post. The hilt, cold and unfamiliar, remained in his hand. Henry stood there, his body trembling, his eyes lifeless as he looked at the piece of metal left in his hand. He had failed.

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