"The dead do not suffer. The living carry their pain for them."
Rei stood over the grave for a long time.
Long enough for the wind to shift, carrying away the last traces of smoke and blood from the battlefield. Long enough for the warmth of Aya's skin to fade from his memory.
He clenched his fists.
He had buried her, but the weight of it still sat in his chest. Heavy. Unmovable.
But the world wasn't done with him yet.
A cough. Shallow. Wet.
Behind him, Alistair was still alive.
Rei turned slowly, his boots grinding against the dry earth.
Alistair lay on his side, barely propped up by the remnants of his broken armor. His golden blood stained the ground beneath him, pooling around the shattered remains of his greatsword.
His breaths were uneven, his body trembling from the effort of simply existing.
But he was still conscious. Still watching.
Rei took a step closer. The air between them was thick with something unspoken—something that had been festering for years.
A silence between two men who had once called each other brother.
Alistair was the first to speak.
"…You buried her." His voice was rough, barely more than a whisper. Not a question. A statement.
Rei didn't answer.
Alistair let out a slow breath. His fingers twitched against the dirt, like he wanted to reach for something—his sword, his faith, a reason to keep believing in what he had done.
But there was nothing left.
His grip loosened.
"You're not going to kill me," he said.
Again, not a question.
Rei let the words hang in the air. Let them settle like dust over the grave.
Then—softly, dangerously—he finally spoke.
"You're already dead."
Alistair's breath hitched.
Not from fear.
From the weight of understanding.
Rei knelt beside him, lowering himself to eye level. For the first time since the battle began, he looked directly at him—not as an enemy, not as an executioner, but as someone who had once fought beside him.
"You're going to die here, Alistair," Rei continued, voice steady. "Alone. Forgotten. Just like her."
Alistair flinched—the smallest, most human reaction Rei had seen from him in years.
"You talk about righteousness," Rei went on. "About justice. About duty. But when you die here, when the world moves on without you—what will it have meant?"
Alistair didn't answer.
His fingers tightened into a fist.
Then, finally—after what felt like eternity—he laughed.
Low. Broken.
"…You still don't understand," he murmured.
Rei said nothing.
Alistair slowly turned his head, his fading golden eyes locking onto Rei's.
"Even if I die here… the war doesn't stop." His breath was shaky, but his voice held absolute certainty. "The Holy Dominion will send another in my place. The Abyss will continue to corrupt. The world doesn't need me. It just needs someone willing to do what must be done."
A cold, familiar feeling settled in Rei's chest.
Because once—a long time ago—he had believed the same thing.
Alistair exhaled slowly. His eyes drifted toward the dark sky.
"And you," he continued, voice softer, weaker. "You'll keep running. Keep burying the dead. But it won't change anything."
A pause.
Then—for the first time—Alistair looked at him with something close to pity.
"You're still lost, Rei."
Rei's fingers twitched.
Not from anger. Not from grief.
From something deeper.
But instead of answering, instead of proving him right or wrong, Rei reached into his coat.
And pulled out a single silver coin.
Alistair's breath caught.
Rei turned his palm, letting the coin drop.
It landed in the dirt beside him, gleaming faintly in the dim light.
A simple, unspoken message.
A coin for the dead.
A warrior's burial.
Despite everything, Rei had still given him that.
Alistair exhaled a slow, shaking breath.
Then, finally, his body went still.
And Rei left him there.
With nothing but a grave and a silver coin.
Rei walked.
He didn't look back.
Not at Aya's grave. Not at Alistair's body. Not at the battlefield that had already started to fade into just another ruin in a world filled with them.
He just walked.
Because that was all he knew how to do.
His body felt heavy, but his hands felt empty.
No sword. No purpose. No direction.
Just him.
And maybe, for the first time, that scared him more than anything else ever had.
Because now, there was nothing left to fight for.
Nothing left to burn for.
Nothing left to save.
He had won.
And yet, somehow—
He had never felt more lost.