The world shimmered .

It was, finally, enough.

Tonight, the rain had stopped. The clock tower struck twelve.

Viktor, reaching deep, pulled out the —the true one, not the replica. The sword growled in his hand.

On the seventh night, Riou stood alone on the parapet. Below, two former allies fought each other with and Fury Runes over a dispute about a Blue Ribbon . A child had been killed for a Rune Piece .

The rain over the City-State of Jowston had a way of washing away the filth of war, but never the memory of it. Riou, now the revered leader of the Dunan Unification Army, sat in the quiet study of his headquarters in New North Window. The weight of the recent conflict with the Highland Kingdom still pressed on his shoulders, but the people were healing. Trade routes were reopening. Children laughed again.

He ran outside, shouting for Viktor, Flik, Nanami. They came, sleepy and annoyed. He showed them.

Riou, pragmatic and weary, had almost thrown it away. But curiosity, that old enemy, gnawed at him.

Then he remembered the odd visitor from three nights ago.

“Up,” he whispered, remembering the climb from the Tinto mines. “Down,” the descent into the Muse prison. “Left,” the road to Radat. “Right,” the final charge at Rockaxe. “Start. Select. R. L.”

It wasn't the loss of his friend Jowy, who had vanished into the mist after the fall of the Beast Rune. It was something more absurd. He looked down at his inventory pouch—a small, leather-bound satchel that had somehow survived every battle, every escape, every betrayal. Inside, he carried the essentials: a few medicinal herbs, a worn Tunic, some sharpening stones for his twin swords, and the odd Fire Sealing Rune he’d picked up in a village market.

Riou wept. He would forget this week. He would forget the power. He would go back to scarcity, to struggle, to the honest weight of a single herb pouch and a worn tunic. He would let the merchants haggle, the farmers sweat, the blacksmiths hammer.

He thought of the legends. Tales whispered by old merchants and drunken sailors of a "perfect arsenal"—every piece of armor ever forged, every rune ever inscribed, every sharpened blade and rusty nail. A hoard so complete it could end all want, all scarcity, forever.

And when he woke the next morning, he remembered nothing but a strange dream about a glowing cartridge and a man who spoke in numbers. His inventory held exactly three herbs, one tunic, and a small, smooth stone he’d picked up from the banks of the Two River. It was enough.