His hands—thick, scarred, marked by time—spoke of countless years spent enduring, surviving.
The deep lines on his face bore the weight of a life carved through hardship.
He lifted the goblet slowly.
As the aroma of the wine rose to his nose, memories drifted through his eyes.
He remembered his youth—fighting in the roar of war, the stench of blood filling his lungs.
And then…
A smile crept onto Alfred's lips.
Yes… I met her.
The time was drawing near.
His gaze turned toward the sky, where Michael and Marcus soared high above the ship—his grandson, his blood.
A child no longer, but one destined to write a new legend that surpassed Alfred's own era.
"…Take care of everything, Michael."
He whispered softly, raising his glass high—
as if to offer a toast to the heavens.
The crimson liquid shimmered faintly in the flickering candlelight.
Alfred stared into the cup for a long moment, lost in thought.
May the journey that began with her and me… finally find its end.
