The story did not end because a group of people had left.
The players who had come to this world had already left their marks upon it. They had even long since gained successors of their own.
Like the adorable Alisa.
Like every child's child, she lived in the fairy tale held in the hearts of every Boulder City survivor and shelter resident.
That was not something nonexistent.
Just as Sberg had once said, Boulder City's miracle had never been a Bol who did not truly exist, but every person who held a torch against the darkness when night fell.
But it had to be admitted that people had not started out so brave and kind. Naturally, not every child could be as fortunate as Alisa.
The goodness in people's hearts could turn prison-like walls into a castle from a fairy tale, while the evil within could just as easily turn that fairy-tale castle into a grim and wicked dungeon.
The only consolation was that this dungeon could trap no one but those who built it.
That, too, was cold and merciless reality.
Those who built dungeons would ultimately rot in their deepest depths, just as those who planted red soil and those who consumed it would eventually be buried in that bloody history.
That was a story written into the wind and snow outside Rowell Camp long, long ago—and repeated again and again.
No one was an exception.
Those who left first were not necessarily the tragic ones...
Mammoth City.
The flames of protest were still raging, and Niyang's death had only made them burn hotter.
Lacy had returned from the front lines to Mammoth City with his elite troops and Niyang's body, but flowers and applause did not greet this victor. Stones and rotten eggs did.
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