“He’s talking, isn’t he?” Marta sighed, sitting beside him. She rested her head on his shoulder. The past two years had been a strange dance: hunting rogue monsters, calming corrupted summon spirits, and keeping Emil from losing himself to the Lord of Monsters. “What does he want this time?”

“It would be easy,” Emil whispered.

Emil stepped forward. Not toward Elara, but toward the Cocoon. He placed his palm on its warm surface. Inside, he could feel the seeds of genocide—a quiet, merciful apocalypse. No more angry mobs. No more Marta having to hide her lineage. No more Emil having to whisper apologies for existing.

“I don’t know. He never just tells me.”

Emil smiled, wincing at the frostbite blooming on his knuckles. “Let’s go home.”

“He wants me to ‘embrace the abyss’ or something.” Emil finally bit into the bread. It was stale.

“She’s not wrong about one thing,” Ratatosk said, quieter than usual. “You hesitate because you see yourself in her logic. The desire to erase the pain rather than heal it.”

I’m not a coward, Emil thought back.