Dreamville.
In the garden.
Gallagher stood before the reclining chair, gazing at the Grand Theater hanging upside down in the dark sky. He sighed:
"I never thought it, old man, but your harebrained plan actually worked."
"Are all you Nameless just fools who act on impulse?"
Gallagher's gaze grew distant:
"I can smell it. This false dream is about to end."
"Those Nameless may be young, but they really are capable of doing this... just like you did back then."
He turned and looked at the Clockmaker's remains:
"Too bad you couldn't witness this with your own eyes."
"I'm afraid I won't have that fortune either..."
"Once [fictional] things are seen through, it's as good as if they never existed."
"Hmph."
Gallagher folded his arms and shook his head:
"Forget those Nameless. That winged brat is exactly like you—stubborn to the bitter end, refusing to shed a tear until he sees the coffin... Fate really is cruel."
"If it weren't for this damned Path, the few of us might actually have gotten along."
"But in the end, we gave them one hell of a beating."
"That feels good."
"Do you remember how those bastards cursed us back then, hmm?"
"They said: 'Go to hell, you damned traitors...'"
Gallagher looked at the old man lying in the reclining chair, his thoughts churning:
"Mikhail, Mikhail... I don't know if what they said was true, but if wanting freedom means we deserve to go to hell..."
"Then I'll be down there to find you soon, old bastard."
"Let's have dinner together again in hell..."
"Oh, I almost forgot. There's one more thing..."
He suddenly produced a wineglass filled with brilliantly colored liquor.
He drained it in one gulp.
"With this glass of [Gathering and Parting Have Their Time], I offer you my respects,