Brando flew along the Gers River valley toward Mintai. Below him stretched the vast western forests of Shafrund. From above, the dark woodlands of late winter were interspersed with dazzling white patches of snow, like a world being wrapped in silver. This forest was hardly an uninhabited wilderness. In fact, it was a major route connecting Mintai, Olta, Paris, Shafrund, and Fir Territory. Scattered manors and villages dotted the woods, and hunters' cabins could occasionally be seen among the trees. But most of them had long since fallen silent and empty. The atmosphere of war hung over Tonigell like a tangible presence.
Yet seeing this scene, Brando's heart was calm. The construction of Fir Territory had gathered the efforts of countless people. Antitina and Roman had spent years turning this barren land into a thriving center of commerce.
But compared with the hardship of construction, destruction often took only a fleeting instant.
The nobles of Eluin had not only failed to guide the kingdom forward; they had instead become the root of everything hindering its progress. The Royalist Faction from his memories had long since ceased to exist. The Crown Princess hoped people could reclaim the faith of their late sovereign, but in the end, it was only an illusion.
All this ugliness—a restored Eluin returned to the Mortal Realm, its heroes, and even the heroes themselves—had determined the tragic fate awaiting the kingdom.
This experience of starting over had taught him that nothing in history had happened by chance. Every person caught up in it—even he himself—had pushed history forward, sending it down the irreversible path that followed.
But he did not feel angry.
Or rather, the coldness of his emotions had suppressed his fury. What he needed now was no longer bitter resentment, but a thorough cleansing.
He