Nanoha pores over the HA01 incident dossier with the precision of a scholar dissecting an immutable text, its contents no longer mere documentation but a neural engraving, etched into the corridors of her cognition. Fifty-nine civilians—a number that should signify triumph—exist instead as a chilling monument to an absence she cannot mend.
Yet, she remains.
The sterility of the boardroom, illuminated by the cold fluorescence overhead, magnifies the oppressive monotony of bureaucratic ritual. The rhythmic drone of voices, punctuated by the mechanical click of a slide transition, permeates the air. Nanoha's posture is faultless, her fingers gliding across the notepad with an automated precision, transcribing words she does not register.
To the uninformed observer, she is the model of engagement—attentive, methodical, disciplined.
But it is a well-crafted illusion.
Her mind drifts through a carefully maintained liminal space—neither consumed by emotion nor entirely devoid of it. It is a partition, an intellectual construct designed to insulate her from the weight pressing against her ribcage. She can almost hear Fate's voice—a whisper at the edge of perception, ephemeral yet persistent. But she does not allow herself to listen.
Then—
A disturbance. Subtle at first, a flicker in the periphery of her awareness, until it manifests as a visceral jolt that fractures her equilibrium. A sharp pulse resonates through her chest, severing the tenuous grasp she has on composure. Her hand falters, pen pausing mid-motion. Her gaze lifts, locking onto the projection screen.
Five figures stand in rigid formation, their postures disciplined, their faces indistinct.
Except for one.
"Repeat that," she instructs, her voice an instrument of control, even as the undercurrents of tension ripple beneath it.
Carim inclines her head. "As I was saying, new recruits have been assigned to our sector. Riot Force 6 will oversee their assessments, and an appropriate supervisor will be—"
"I will handle it."
Her statement is not a request. It is a declaration, immutable in its finality.
The meeting disperses around her, the muted shuffling of papers and quiet exchanges of protocol irrelevant to the singular fixation in her mind. The projection fades, yet the image lingers, unshaken in its clarity.
For the briefest of moments, she acknowledges the weight curling within her chest.
Then, with the discipline of repetition, she suppresses it.
Training Grounds
TTYCF Training Grounds
The air is saturated with residual energy, an invisible charge pulsating in rhythmic oscillations. Nanoha's aura intensifies, condensing into an incandescent force that illuminates the training grounds with an unnatural brilliance. In one fluid motion, she releases an attack—pure, unmitigated power arcing across the sky, a projectile of devastation that tears through the atmosphere with merciless efficiency.
The cadet has mere seconds to process what is happening.
A tremor overtakes her as she examines her arm—untouched yet visibly affected. Her skin blisters, the peripheral heat alone inducing third-degree burns. Her instincts scream at her to flee, to retreat beyond the reach of the entity descending toward her with lethal precision. Yet, paralysis ensnares her limbs, a primal terror seizing her faculties.
Nanoha closes the distance instantaneously.
Without hesitation, she seizes the cadet by the throat, lifting her before driving her into the ground with mechanical force. Armor splinters under the impact, a wet gasp escaping from her lips as the breath is expelled from her lungs. Blood, dark and vibrant, splatters onto the dirt, merging with the crimson rivulets trickling from the abrasions lacerating her back.
She does not move.
Nanoha's boot presses down upon her chest, an exertion of dominance rather than necessity. The cadet's vision swims, but even through the haze of pain, she recognizes the infernal glow in Nanoha's gaze—the unmistakable presence of the White Devil.
This is no mere test.
It is judgment.
The cadet clenches her fists, forcing her gaze to meet the inferno before her. Her voice, hoarse yet resolute, breaks the oppressive silence.
"Fate would not have wanted to see you like this."
Time suspends itself.
Nanoha's expression remains unreadable, a mask of impassivity. Yet, within the microcosm of that moment, something imperceptible shifts.
In the blink of an eye, she closes the space between them.
Their faces are mere inches apart. The cadet can feel the warmth of her breath, the intensity of her presence coalescing into something suffocating. When Nanoha speaks, her voice is glacial, each syllable laced with something more dangerous than fury—grief masked as venom.
"Do not speak her name."
Her fist clenches. The cadet braces herself, instinctively shutting her eyes.
A surge of energy erupts just as Hayate and Signum arrive. Their auras flare in a desperate attempt to contain Nanoha's power. Hayate extends a barrier, her voice urgent. "Nanoha, stop this!"
Signum moves with swift precision, sword drawn, ready to intercept, but it is futile.
Nanoha does not hesitate. She barely acknowledges their presence before releasing a devastating pulse of magic. The sheer force of the blast shatters Hayate's barrier as though it were paper-thin, sending her tumbling backward. Signum's advance is halted mid-strike, her blade deflecting harmlessly off the wave of energy before she, too, is hurled aside. The impact sends shockwaves rippling through the training grounds, leaving deep fissures in the earth.
Nanoha stands amid the destruction, unmoved, her expression unreadable.
The battlefield, once teeming with energy, is silent except for the crackle of dissipating magic.
They used to say that nothing could temper the White Devil.
Except for one.
And she is gone.
A gust of wind disturbs the silence, raking through the training grounds with whispered finality. Nanoha lifts her head, eyes gazing toward the horizon as though searching for something beyond her reach. The acrid scent of magic and smoke lingers in the air, an echo of what has just transpired. She lifts a hand to her cheek as though touched by a ghost.
Nanoha exhales, a controlled release of breath as she withdraws her boot. The cadet, though free from the weight, does not stir, acutely aware that any movement could shatter whatever tenuous restraint has seized Nanoha in that instant.
Her voice, though quiet, carries the force of command.
"That's enough for today."
The cadet does not respond. Cannot respond.
Nanoha turns, her departure as silent as the weight she carries. She does not look back.
Left in the wake of her absence, the cadet remains motionless, staring skyward, breath still unsteady. She has faced battle. She has stared death in the eyes.
Yet, today, she cannot help but think she has been closer to it than ever before.
Fate's world disintegrates around her. Her knees fail, sending her collapsing to the ground in a graceless heap. The reports she had been studying slip from her loosened grasp, fluttering to the floor like discarded memories. They form a circle around her, each page a testament to the unspeakable horrors they describe. The air is thick with the echoes of screams from the most gruesome experiments, each one clawing at her sanity. Nausea builds within her, a relentless tide threatening to overflow. She gasps, struggling for breath as tears carve rivers of despair down her cheeks. Her fist clenches in a futile attempt to regain control, her teeth gritted against the unbearable agony. Summoning a strength she didn't know she had, she reaches for the doorknob, her hand shaking. She pushes it open, and the sight that greets her is a vision of hell itself.
The room is a gallery of nightmares. Cages line the walls, each one a cruel showcase of suffering. The inhabitants are grotesque parodies of life – failed hybrids, animals unnaturally merged with human limbs, emaciated humans whose eyes beg for the release of death. The floor is a canvas of horror, painted with the insides of those who couldn't endure the torment. Hybrids, driven mad by their existence, engage in cannibalistic rituals. These were not the creations of a twisted mind; they were once innocent beings, human and animal alike, twisted into monstrous forms.
Overcome with revulsion, Fate succumbs to her roiling stomach, the darkness that had been nibbling at the edges of her consciousness now enveloping her completely. She is swallowed by a void of despair, the weight of all the suffering bearing down upon her like a shroud.
Transitioning to a memory of chaos, Fate stands amidst the aftermath of a rescue operation. Fifty-nine civilians, their faces etched with relief and terror, owe their lives to her bravery. She could have chosen the safety of home, just like her comrades, after enduring the inferno of explosions and a grueling three-hour battle. But a single plea for help, uttered in a voice strained with desperation, anchors her to the scene. With no hesitation, she seals the portal home. "Ginga, please take them home," she instructs, her voice steady as the portal dims and vanishes. Her colleague's pleas, filled with panic and concern, echo in the now-sealed room. Fate turns, a determined smile on her face, as she reenters the perilous building, encasing herself in protective barriers, a soft chuckle her only comment as she saves one more life – the sixtieth.
Einhart groans as she forces her eyes open. Everything aches. A deep, unrelenting pain settles into her bones. Her vision blurs at first, but the sterile white of the ceiling gradually comes into focus.
She tries to move. A sharp sting shoots through her ribs.
A noise. Footsteps. Someone is there.
She turns her head—too quickly. A dull throb pulses behind her eyes. And then, a face. A girl, young in her 20s. Blonde hair, like herself - heterochromatic eyes. Concern shadows her features.
"You're awake."
The voice is careful, uncertain. The girl hesitates, then moves forward, placing a hand on Einhart's arm as she helps her sit up.
Einhart blinks sluggishly. Her mouth is dry. She swallows, throat burning.
The girl—Vivio, Einhart recalls hazily—offers her a glass of water. "Three days," she says.
Einhart stares.
Vivio shifts on her feet. "You've been asleep for three days."
A pause.
"I—" Vivio hesitates, tightening her grip on the glass before exhaling sharply. "I'm just here to apologize. On behalf of my mom."
Einhart takes the water, though her fingers barely have the strength to curl around it. Her mind still feels sluggish. Distant. But she can see it—this girl is uneasy. Trouble lingers behind her eyes, in the way she holds herself like she is bracing for something.
Einhart knows why.
"I know why she did it." Her voice cracks. It feels foreign in her own throat.
Vivio's expression tightens. A slight crease in her brow, the barest clench of her jaw.
A beat.
"Yeah," Vivio says, wiping the dampness from Einhart's forehead with the sleeve of her jacket. The movement is mechanical, not tender. Just something to do. "It's been ten years."
Silence.
Vivio's hand drops to her side. She exhales sharply, like she has more to say but doesn't quite know how to say it. Her fingers flex, restless. "A couple of years ago…" She swallows. "I'd have done the same thing."
Einhart lays back against the pillows. The softness beneath her feels undeserved.
"You know," she says finally, "that I was the reason she died."
Vivio doesn't flinch.
"I know," she says. Her voice doesn't waver, but it isn't strong either. It just is. "I know you led her back."
Another pause.
Einhart's breath catches, just slightly.
Vivio shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her hands curl into fists, then loosen. "I also know that she still made sure you were safe."
The words sting in a way Einhart doesn't expect.
Vivio turns then, her back rigid, her head tilted just enough to the side that Einhart can't see her face.
"So if you were to die," Vivio continues, voice quieter now, more strained, "I don't think Fate-mama would be happy."
The silence that follows feels like it stretches endlessly. Minutes, maybe hours.
Einhart's fingers twitch against the blanket.
Slowly, she reaches up, slipping a chain over her head. At the end of it, a ring—small, unremarkable, but heavier than anything else she has ever held.
She hesitates.
Then, finally, she holds it out to Vivio.
"I came here to return this."
Vivio turns, her gaze falling to the ring. Her breath hitches.
Einhart exhales, voice barely above a whisper.
"To your mom."