The sky still refuses to give light, even though war has exhausted the earth. There are no stars, no moon—only heavy black clouds, burdened by unfulfilled prayers and unresolved grudges. In the Sanctuary of Plum Blossom, after the attack of Bellator Ultima Prime, ashes and fragments of stone still cover the altar, yet the silence of that night does not signify peace.
Fitran, in his mind, recalls the past during moments of tranquility. He remembers his grandfather's teachings, who always said, "True strength comes from wise choices, not just from fighting skills." Those words are like a mantra, reminding him that the burden he carries is not only physical but also a legacy that must be borne with honor.
Amidst the ruins, the footsteps of Fitran, Aratake, and Shigure echo softly. The protectors of Oda and Yamato sit cross-legged, some praying, others nursing wounds that refuse to heal. Beelzebub floats among them, her golden light dimming, her face weary from the weight of choices that cannot be resolved with strength or miracles. In her heart, she feels the pressure of all the hopes placed upon her, like the wind urging withered leaves to fly even though they are tired.
But tonight, it is not only humans who are present in the Sanctuary. In the deep silence, the air grows cold; the breaths of the protectors form vapor in the air. One by one, shadows begin to appear around the altar—faint faces, soft voices echoing from the past. "Choose wisely," whispers a gentle voice, as if flowing from afar, seeping into the souls of those burdened by uncertainty. Each shadow seems to add weight to their shoulders, affirming that every choice brings unexpected outcomes, both good and bad.
Akiko, who is tending to Fitran, suddenly feels a chill run down her spine. In her panic, shadows of the past flash through her mind—memories of her wise grandmother, gently explaining the responsibilities of family legacy. In the corner of the altar, an old woman with silver hair stands, wearing a plum kimono. Her face is stern, but her eyes are filled with sorrow. Akiko feels her heart tremble, as if her great-grandmother's voice, dressed in emptiness, waits to be welcomed. "Do not repeat the curse I have passed down," she whispers—and Fitran recognizes that voice. The great-grandmother of Oda.
On the other side, Kazama Aratake sees a half-masked man, carrying a short sword. "There is no pride in inherited revenge, only emptiness." He is stunned, realizing he is looking at the founder of Yamato himself. Memories of struggles missed while grappling with guilt envelop Kazama's thoughts. Shouldn't he be fighting not just for himself, but for a brighter future?
Shigure, standing in the middle of the altar with a bow in hand, suddenly finds himself surrounded by small figures: children, women, young samurai whose faces are lost in the mist. Shigure's heart aches, witnessing their suppressed longing. "How many names have been erased, just because we are too loyal to oaths we did not choose ourselves?" whispers one of them, a voice sharp and bitter. Uncontrollable tears flow down Shigure's face, realizing that every lost soul is a lesson for those still alive. In silence, he promises himself to break this cycle, embracing the legacy as his right, not a burden.
In the hidden chamber beneath the sanctuary, Fitran groans, his body tensing—contractions strike again, stronger than before. Akiko embraces him, her tears falling, whispering ancient mantras to strengthen and ward off evil spirits. In the silence of that space, the presence of thousands of souls is felt, as if history peeks from dark corners, witnessing the battle between hope and fear that envelops them.
The spirit of Oda's great-grandmother kneels beside Fitran, touching his forehead. With a gaze full of love yet sharp, she murmurs ancient tales of decisions that shape the future. "There is power in uncertainty," she says, "like the evening that no longer clearly reflects the energy of the day, where choices become light or shadow." "The child born tonight carries two possibilities: redemption or a new disaster. Choose with your heart, not with your family name. Do not pass down the curse, but pass down the courage to choose for oneself."
In the city of Thirtos, Iris, who also begins to feel the signs of birth, sits in the dark with Miel. In the calm of the night, her mind wrestles with the burden of hope and legacy. She remembers her grandmother's stories about choices to be made at crossroads, when the voice of the heart begins to permeate the body. In the corner of the room, a woman with golden wings appears—Sheena, Beelzebub's mother, the grandmother of Iris's baby. "Iris, on the brink of death and birth, you will hear many voices. But only one voice you must trust—your own voice of hope, not the voice of fear that is inherited."
Beelzebub walks among the spirits and humans, gazing at each one. She sees Jeanne—her long-gone sister—standing before the altar, wearing a cracked white armor. "Beelzebub, you carry a hope greater than your own abilities. But remember, every hope can become a burden if you impose it on others. Let them choose their own path—you need only stand by their side, not in front of them."
As she gazes at the faces surrounding her, Beelzebub feels the weight of every gaze, as if each spirit carries a history and unfulfilled dreams. In the silence that envelops them, she recalls the joyful moments with her family before loss took them away. Each sorrow and hope seems to form an invisible bridge between her and the spirits around her.
Beelzebub bows her head, holding back tears. "I am afraid of failing, Jeanne. If they choose wrong, the world will be destroyed."
Jeanne smiles gently. "There is no choice that is certainly right or wrong. Only the courage to accept the consequences makes the choice yours."
Beelzebub feels her weakness lurking, as if that fear is trying to pull her into darkness. And in one corner of her heart, she knows that the legacy of fear and hope is merely a reflection of the purity of her soul. She wants to release the burden that has been passed down, to make room for future generations to make their choices according to the light that shines within them.
In the Sanctuary, as the contractions reach their peak, Fitran feels his body and soul being pulled between the world of the living and the world of the dead. The spirit of his great-grandmother whispers a final prayer, then disappears with the cold mist enveloping the altar.
Kazama Aratake and Shigure stand at the door, guarding every sound, every movement of the enemy. Outside the sanctuary, the Earth forces gather, the Five Pillars ready to destroy the altar if they detect the birth.
In the underground chamber of Gaia, Iris also endures pain, while Miel prays to Sheena for just a little time to complete the birth—time enough for one breath of life.
As both wombs are on the brink of birth and death, the voices of ancestral spirits unite—their echoes fill the sanctuary and the city of Thirtos, felt deep in the hearts of Beelzebub and the angels:
"If you pass down the curse, the world will be reborn in blood. If you pass down forgiveness, the world will be born with a new name. Choose, tonight, what you wish to leave for your children."
For a moment, Beelzebub's gaze sinks into emptiness, recalling the figures who once loved her and who now depend on the decision she will make. She remembers her grandmother, a strong woman who, though weak without weapons, managed to carve strength in every verse she left behind. In this contemplation, it becomes clear to her that every choice carries a legacy that will transcend their lifetimes.
The sky remains dark. But just before dawn, amidst the sounds of birth and death, a faint light appears on the eastern horizon. The longing for hope and the desire to change fate intertwine within her soul, like an unbroken river flow. Beelzebub feels a vibration in her breath, as if each exhalation carries a message from the timeless past.
Beelzebub gazes at the sky and knows: the night without stars is the night when history is easiest to rewrite—either as a tale of destruction or a new beginning written upon the ruins of an old curse.