Rose noticed a group trembling in the corner, their fear palpable.
"She said, looking at the trembling people, 'I have completed Operation Redemption.'"
She turned away, stepping outside into the cold night. Snow fell softly, blanketing the earth, but the full moon above burned red—a fiery sentinel in the sky. Her breath fogged in the icy air as her gaze caught something unfamiliar.
By the side of the path, she saw a garden she had never noticed before, and within it, a dying world. Flowers, brittle and lifeless, bowed under the weight of frost. Yet, amidst the decay, one stood tall—a single crimson rose, its fiery color unyielding against the despair surrounding it. It glowed fiercely under the red moonlight, defiant in its beauty.
Her bloodied hand trembled, and the sword she carried fell with a dull thud to the ground. A crimson droplet from her palm landed on the flower, its hue merging with the rose as though it had always been a part of it.
"Now I understand why my name is Rose," she murmured, her voice trembling with a sorrow that felt ancient and unending. "Roses are admired for their beauty, their fragrance, their fleeting perfection. People pluck them to offer as tokens of love, never thinking of the pain their thorns endure."
Her eyes rested on the single crimson bloom, vibrant and alive amidst a garden of decay. A bitter laugh escaped her lips, soft as the falling snow. "When every other rose has withered, one remains—standing alone, defying the cold, defying death. It stands not because it wishes to, but because it has no choice. It carries the weight of what was lost, every petal a reminder of sacrifices made."
She knelt beside the rose, her bloodstained hand brushing against its resilient stem. "The others gave their life so this one could endure. They shielded it from the storm, gave it the chance to breathe. But no matter how much this solitary rose might wish to save them, it can't. It's left to bloom alone, bearing the burden of survival."
Her voice broke, a sob catching in her throat. "Just like me."
She reached out with trembling fingers and plucked the last standing rose, cradling it delicately in her hand. Looking at its resilient beauty, she whispered softly, "Don't worry, you are not alone. I am with you."
Rose said, looking at the red rose in her bloody hand,"Perhaps the god has granted me the power to kill, and within me burns an unquenchable fire of rage. My life has been an endless cycle of vengeance, forged in the shadows of loss and despair. It is not fate that compels me—it is the inferno within, the relentless hunger to see everything reduced to ashes.
If I rise again, ruin will follow. To become the Lord of Destruction, to watch the world crumble to dust beneath my feet—this is the path that calls to me. But what is power, if not a hollow echo of all that has been lost? How tragic, how pitiful, that in the end, all I shall hold is destruction.
This is not my destiny—it is my choice, my curse. The world is so unjust, so unforgiving, that I must destroy it."
With the crimson rose still gently cradled in her bloodstained hand, Rose stood at the edge of the frozen garden, her gaze fixed on the red moon above. The air was cold and biting, yet there was a strange warmth that lingered in her chest—a fire ignited by the dance she had begun. The snow, soft and delicate, fell around her like tiny shards of the night, but Rose was no longer aware of the chill. She had long since stopped feeling the bite of the world around her.
The dying garden, the barren earth, the lost moments—it all faded into the background as the weight of the rose in her hand anchored her. The petals, so vibrant against the snow, called to her in ways she could not fully understand. She was no longer simply a person—she was a symbol of defiance, a bridge between the past and whatever would come after. The moon burned crimson in the sky, a fiery witness to the dance that was about to unfold.
With a deep, steadying breath, she raised the rose to the sky, the stem trembling ever so slightly in her bloodied grip. The blade of the sword was forgotten now. There was only the rose. Her movement was slow at first, deliberate, as if she were testing the pull of something beyond the garden. Then, with a fluid motion, her arms swept down and out, guiding her body into the dance.
Her feet moved across the snow, tracing delicate patterns in the frozen earth. Every step was a breath, every turn a whisper of something ancient and eternal. The rose in her hand seemed to glow in the moonlight, the red petals glowing fiercely as if alive, as if they could feel the power of her sorrow and defiance. She spun, twirled, and the garden seemed to come alive with her movements, the dying world watching her in silent reverence.
The rhythm grew, as if the very earth was beating in time with her. Each step was deliberate, each movement more urgent, more fervent than the last. She danced with a fluidity that belied the weight of the sorrow and pain that haunted her. The red rose, held delicately yet with a fierce grip, moved with her in perfect harmony, its petals fluttering softly with each spin, each motion.
As she danced, her movements grew wilder, more passionate, as though the very act of movement could purge her of the heavy burden of the past. The snow swirled around her, whipped up by the intensity of her steps. The red rose seemed to pulse with life in her hand, its color a brilliant flash against the white chaos of the night. The dance became her release, a moment where time itself seemed to stretch, as if the world were holding its breath.
Finally, with a swift, decisive motion, Rose leapt into the air, her body arching in one final, graceful twist. The moment seemed to stretch, suspended in the cold night. As she descended, her fingers loosened their grip on the rose, and it slipped from her hand, floating gently toward the ground below. But Rose, in that fleeting moment of weightlessness, was no longer concerned with the rose.
With a graceful, powerful dive, she plunged into the icy water below, the coldness biting at her skin as the world around her shattered into ripples. The red rose followed her descent, its petals trailing gently in the water, a final symbol of her defiance, her sorrow, and the beauty she had embraced in her solitude.
As she sank deeper, the icy grip of the lake seeped into her bones. The weight of the world pulled her down, dragging her into an endless abyss. Her breaths became shallow, her chest heavy, and the edges of her vision blurred into darkness. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the silence.
But then, through the void, a soft glow pierced the darkness. She opened her eyes, barely able to comprehend the golden light emanating from the rose. Its radiance grew stronger, cutting through the icy depths like a beacon of hope.
Before she could understand, something reached for her—something warm and gentle. It pulled her, not toward the darkness she had embraced, but into the light. She resisted, her hands clawing at the freezing water, desperate to remain in the void where she thought she belonged.
But the pull was relentless, tender yet unyielding. The light enveloped her, warming her frozen soul, and she felt a force from the shadows itself surrender to the glow. The darkness she clung to began to dissolve, and with it, the weight of her despair.
The light consumed her, drawing her into something unknown, something she could not fight. And in that moment, as she drifted into the radiant embrace, she realized that even in the deepest darkness, there is always a flicker of light waiting to pull you home.
In a quiet, hidden corner of the universe, a magic circle pulsed with life, its intricate symbols glowing in hues of gold and silver. The circle was vast, its edges adorned with ancient runes and sacred patterns, each one a testament to forgotten knowledge. Spiraling lines of light moved like rivers, weaving through the symbols as though they were veins carrying the essence of magic itself.
At its center hovered a book, its cover bound in dark leather, aged and worn, yet radiating an aura of timeless power. The pages turned of their own accord, each flip accompanied by a soft shimmer, as though the very air around it was enchanted. Wisps of energy rose from the circle, dancing like flames, illuminating the space with a haunting, ethereal glow.
The atmosphere was thick with mystery, as though the circle was alive, breathing with the power of countless stories it had witnessed. The light grew brighter as the book neared its final page, casting shadows that flickered like ghosts of the past.
When the last page closed, the circle's glow began to fade. The spiraling light slowed, the runes dimmed, and an overwhelming stillness fell upon the scene. The circle seemed to sigh, its purpose fulfilled, as the golden letters on the book's cover appeared: "The story in this world has come to an end."