Epilogue

"Good. This is what I wanted to see."

Tom stood above the skies of Berlin, clutching the heart. The violently beating organ could not move under the vise of his fingers. Ink-dark clotted blood gushed from the severed arteries, and once freed from the immense pressure inside the heart, it rapidly swelled into wailing, wronged souls. This heart bore unimaginable sins, and even now, the ghosts of those who had died miserably at its owner's hands were still loyally carrying out the orders of the one who had butchered them, using magic that annihilated their own souls to launch suicidal attacks at Tom.

He ignored these harassments. In a sense, letting them destroy themselves was also a kind of release for these ghosts, who had been imprisoned for a thousand years. Explosions of magic went off one after another around Tom, but he was not affected in the slightest. Instead, they became a dazzling fireworks display, adorning the scene beneath his feet that finally made his long-silent heart feel pleasure.

"Perhaps only when a world-ending crisis descends can humanity realize how laughable its disputes are..."

Below him, the city of Berlin, already unrecognizable, was packed with people.

Tom gazed at the battlefield. This war, which to most people had not even lasted a day, was, to him, a hazy memory from two thousand years ago. He lowered his head. The magic dispersing across the battlefield along with the gun smoke traced lines of varying depth, recreating for him everything that had happened from the moment the Missionary had been born, sacrificed Mayfly, and caused the door of death to open, until now.

At first, the only ones fighting Herpo the Foul were Nelson and his friends and followers. But soon, the wizards who realized what was happening reacted. The Aurors