The morning sun on Gaia seemed unaware of the events that transpired the night before. The streets were bustling again, the sounds of wheels on cobblestones and the shouts of vendors echoed through the air. Yet, beneath the lively atmosphere, something had changed—an iron scent lingered in the air, whispers of secrets haunted the dark alleys, and suspicious glances crossed paths every time the palace guards passed by.

  The Spiral Laboratory was clean of blood, but this world was never truly free from the taste of vengeance.

  On the outskirts of the city, the home of the Marlen family—one of the young guards who died in last night's incident—was filled with sobs. His mother, Nira, was nearly hysterical as she opened a condolence letter from Joanna, accompanied by a small bag of gold coins sent by the palace. His sister sat stiffly in the corner, her vacant gaze fixed on the window, clutching her hands tightly beneath her dark gray cloak.

  Nira (with a hoarse voice): “My son died to protect the hope of Gaia. Why couldn’t you protect them, Your Highness? What is justice if all that remains are letters and funeral money?”

  Joanna bowed her head, tears silently streaming down her face. She felt incapable of responding. Nira's words pierced her heart like thorns, adding to the burden of guilt that had been swirling in her mind since morning.

  That night, Marlen's sister, Yana, secretly met with the dockworkers' group. They too had lost family members due to this unseen conflict. With fervor, she spoke loudly, “They say this new world is fair, but what happens when the blood of our brothers and sisters becomes its foundation? If they think they can erase us just like that, they are mistaken.”

  Elsewhere, the old noble faction was unafraid of Fitran's harsh actions. Instead, they used the brutal deaths of the intruders as a new propaganda tool. In the basement of an old villa, Sir Velian gathered a few of his loyal followers. “Listen, our Spiral King has dealt with the ‘traitors’ in a most brutal manner. They weren’t even given a trial. This isn’t a new world; it’s just the old face polished with hope,” he declared.

  Sir Velian then sent messengers to several villages, spreading rumors that any opposition would meet the same fate, and their bodies would become the material for spells in the laboratory. Some citizens began to feel afraid to speak honestly in front of the palace overseers. Among them, whispers began, “We must take revenge. Blood must be paid with blood.”

  Joanna didn’t sleep all night in the palace. She sat in her room, surrounded by scattered condolence letters. In the silence, she wrote, “Forgive me. The new world should mean more hugs, less death. But why does it feel the opposite?”

  The next morning, Joanna went down to the palace garden to meet the children of the guards and scientists who had lost their parents. She tried to comfort them, reading stories and teaching simple spiral spells. However, the children only stared blankly. Some cried, while others refused to be touched.

  That night, Joanna approached her father, Fitran. “Father… I’m afraid we’re losing the meaning of this new world. What is the spiral if it only revolves around a cycle of vengeance and death?” she asked.

  Fitran, with a heavy voice, replied, “I want to protect more people, Jo. But sometimes… sometimes the world doesn’t give any other choice.”

  Joanna cried on her father’s shoulder, but that night she also wrote in her diary, “If the spiral only makes us spin the same wounds, one day someone will break the cycle in a way we never imagined.”

  In the following nights, terror quietly unfolded. The Boiler fuel warehouse exploded—luckily, there were no casualties, but the black smoke billowed high above the city, spreading fear in everyone’s hearts. The palace gates were marked with a terrifying red blood glyph: “A tooth for a tooth.” Oda and Iris tried to tighten security, but rumors began to circulate. People said, “Commoners are the victims of the new world’s revenge.” Some servants mysteriously disappeared, suspected to have been kidnapped by the angry workers' group. In the market, vendors began to whisper to customers not to praise the royal family too much. Meanwhile, Yana led a group that carried out small acts of sabotage. They started poisoning wells near the workers' dormitories. As a result, one or two children fell ill. Joanna, unable to stand by, stepped in to help, tirelessly mobilizing healing witches to assist those affected. “Let’s make them feel the same fear,” Yana whispered to her group, this plan for revenge adding to the existing horror.

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  Fitran’s Reflection: The Spiral of Despair

  Fitran sat in his study, gripping a map of the city. The sun was marked with red pins at the locations of the latest incidents. Each night, he was haunted by the faces of new victims. The images of the young guards, the crying children, and Joanna’s face, now devoid of her sunny smile, lingered in his mind.

  Fitran (monologuing to himself): Is all this violence just sowing the seeds of new violence? Or is this truly the price to pay for progress—curving in an endless spiral of vengeance? If this new world needs monsters, let me be that monster.

  He realized one thing: there was no turning back. The new world had demanded many lives, and now, he himself was a king among shadows, his name beginning to fade from the prayers of the grieving.

  Climax: The Secret Confrontation

  One night, Fitran received a message that made his heart race: an invitation to an old underground alley, written in blood glyphs. Without guards, he went alone—only carrying a spiral staff and a soul-binding spell.

  Inside, he met Yana and several new members: young faces with tear-filled, angry eyes. Yana: “Do you think this all ends with justice? Do you think letters and money can erase the blood of our brothers and sisters?”

  Fitran stood tall, pushing away the fear that gripped him. Fitran: “No. But vengeance only creates the same wounds over and over. We cannot build a new world on the same pool of blood.”

  Yana: “I leave it to you. Stop this new world, or we will destroy everything you love. Every night, one life will be taken. Every morning, there will be one family in mourning.”

  Fitran gazed deeply into Yana’s eyes, piercing through layers of exhaustion and the hope that remained there. In an instant, time seemed to slow down. Shadows of the past emerged in his mind—years wasted in a spiral of revenge, countless bloodshed, and screams still echoing in the corridors of his thoughts.

  He remembered the nights when his own hands severed the necks of nobles, warm blood gushing and soaking the marble floors of their homes. The memories of wide-open eyes before they dimmed, hands reaching for the air, and the metallic scent that pierced his nose. Sometimes, Fitran felt every step he took left a red stain on the floor that never truly faded, even as the world around him tried to forget.

  In Yana’s gaze, Fitran realized: the old world and the new world were only separated by one thing—the courage to break that chain, to no longer be a machine of vengeance that merely replaced victims, not healed wounds. If he surrendered, he would only become the next bearer of wounds, the successor of a bloody chapter that had been passed down for too long.

  For a moment, he took a deep breath, realizing the weight of the burden he carried. The world was never simple, and redemption was never cheap.

  Yet, Fitran knew that if he truly wanted to end that old story, he had to dare to stand above all wounds—not to take revenge, but to transcend that vengeance itself. And for the first time, he felt that perhaps… hope was not just an illusion passing through the shadows of blood.

  That night, Fitran returned to the palace with invisible wounds—deeper than mere battle scars or cracks in his sword. He called his family, looking at each of his loved ones, and quietly acknowledged all his failures in protecting them. The sky outside the window slowly darkened, the city lights flickering on one by one, marking the arrival of a night heavy with burdens.

  On the balcony, Joanna stood gazing at the city beginning to sink into darkness. She hugged herself, her breath heavy but her eyes still holding a spark of hope. She spoke softly, as if addressing the world itself, “I believe… hope can grow on wounds. But if the cycle of vengeance continues, even the light of the new world can be extinguished by blood that never dries.”

  Fitran remained silent, bowing his head in a suffocating silence.

  Slowly, Rinoa stepped closer from behind. The balcony lights reflected a soft golden hue on her hair. She wrapped her arms around Fitran’s waist, embracing the body trembling with fatigue and regret.

  Rinoa: “You’ve always wanted to be a shield for everyone, Fitran…” she whispered, her voice as calm as the night’s water, “But even the strongest shield sometimes needs to be held, not repaired.”

  She rested her chin on Fitran’s shoulder, letting the tips of her hair brush against his neck. “Look at me, darling,” she said softly, guiding Fitran to meet her clear gaze in the light, “I fell in love with you not because you always win, but because you always come back, even when you lose. Because you dare to face the wounds and choose love. That’s what makes you home for me… for all of us.”

  Rinoa brought her lips close to Fitran’s ear, whispering more gently—there was a playful tremor in her voice and breath. “If you feel like a failure, let me protect your heart this time… in my own way.” Her fingers traced the line of Fitran’s jaw with a light touch, full of warmth amidst the night’s chill.

  Rinoa: “Tonight, you don’t need to be a hero. Just be mine. Let the world wait, let the wounds rest. I’m here for you—completely.”

  Behind all the wounds, there was love flowing, warm like a whisper in the dark. The world may crack, vengeance may return tomorrow. But that night, on the palace balcony, Fitran allowed himself to be swept away in Rinoa’s embrace and her courage to choose love above all else.