All eyes were turned toward the sky.

  Heads lifted in unison as the dark, heavy clouds gathered unnaturally over Hope’s plaza, clustering into a single brooding mass. The mist thickened at ground level, creeping across the tiles, swallowing people’s feet and ankles. The strange greenish light filtering through the clouds washed over uneasy faces. The plaza had not been this quiet since the frenzy began.

  Suddenly, a low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, yet no lightning, split the clouds.

  Thick hailstones crashed down, striking the ground with brutal force, pelting everything in sight. Panic erupted. Campers scrambled to gather their belongings and flee. Vendors threw themselves into their carts, the mist so dense now that one could barely see two meters ahead. People collided blindly, slipping, tripping, running wherever instinct pushed them. Bjorn, however, hugged the Tree of Hope’s trunk and refused to move.

  Another growl of thunder, still no lightning, and the hail intensified, heavy enough to bruise backs and shoulders. Several fled without their belongings, scientists scrambling to protect their equipment while hailstones hammered into them.

  Sir Vu’s gnome workers begged him to leave.

  “Go,” he ordered. “I’ll stay.”

  Within minutes, Hope’s plaza was abandoned, littered with debris and forgotten items, all battered by the relentless hail. Sir Vu sprinted toward the Tree’s canopy, where Bjorn still held tight to the trunk like a man refusing to be pried away.

  “Cozy weather for a cuddle, hm?” Sir Vu grinned.

  “Why did you stay?” Bjorn asked.

  “Guess it’s my showman’s side deciding for me.”

  “Your showman’s side must be dedicated,” Bjorn remarked, “if it chooses hail over shelter just to stand here.”

  “Right? Even I’m surprised at myself,” Sir Vu chuckled. “Though, oddly enough, this massive canopy isn’t doing much to protect us. Still getting pelted pretty hard.”

  He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the fierce hailstones as he glanced up at the Tree of Hope’s wilting canopy. He then looked back at Bjorn clinging to the trunk.

  “But you’re quite dedicated yourself. Not going to let go?”

  “This is a trial! I’m taking it on!”

  “Trial?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? This hail and weather is obviously pre-choosing stuff! It’s kicking out the fake and selecting the true! I’m showing my determination in the face of hardships!”

  Sir Vu hummed. “But then we are the only two left.”

  “Yeah! And just so you know, I’m not losing to you!” Bjorn squinted at him.

  Sir Vu chuckled.

  “Don’t worry, boy. I’m just a spectator here.”

  The hail slowly stopped. The dark clouds above and the mist below remained, plunging the plaza into an eerie silence, so jarring after the relentless cracks of ice slamming onto the ground. Bjorn finally released the trunk and stepped beside Sir Vu, staring around in disbelief.

  “Woah… it looks like we’re on a deserted island. The whole city vanished in this fog!”

  Sir Vu didn’t answer. His arms were crossed, gaze unfocused.

  Then, from the soil at Sir Vu’s feet, a delicate chrysolite vine peeked out. It rose slowly, unfurling thin tendrils. Sir Vu glanced down then froze, stunned, eyes locked onto it. When the vine reached his knee, it stopped and produced a swelling bud. It grew, glowing faintly, until a beautiful translucent trumpet flower, the size of a fist, opened, colorless yet radiant. It hung motionless, as if waiting, its corona tilted toward Sir Vu, one thin tendril brushing his knee.

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  Sir Vu didn’t move, staring wide-eyed.

  Bjorn finally noticed it, and nearly choked.

  “What is that?!”

  “I don’t know…” Sir Vu murmured as he slowly crouched, eyes still locked on the glowing flower, careful not to damage the vine. Bjorn bent beside him, gaping. Sir Vu raised a finger and reached toward the flower to try to poke it gently. The moment he touched a petal -

  -the air went utterly still.

  Sir Vu froze.

  No blink.

  No breath.

  No response.

  Bjorn darted his gaze from the flower, to Sir Vu’s finger touching it, to Sir Vu’s unblinking, now shocked face.

  “Hey… you okay?” Bjorn asked, uneasy.

  No answer. Sir Vu didn’t even seem to hear him. He remained frozen in the exact same position, expression locked in shock. At the point of contact, the flower pulsed. A faint crackle passed through the air.

  And then, silent tears started flowing from Sir Vu’s unblinking eyes, sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto the soil beside the vine. Bjorn saw them and felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine.

  “Hey!” he shouted, grabbing Sir Vu’s shoulder and shaking hard. His panic only sharpened when he realized he couldn’t move Sir Vu at all. He was immovable, as if he weighed a ton, as if he had turned to carved stone.

  Time seemed to stretch thin. Bjorn hovered there, helpless, not knowing what to do, watching with unease.

  At last, Sir Vu inhaled sharply, his chest lifting with a long, delayed breath. He closed his eyes and brought both palms to his face, covering it. He stayed that way, motionless again, as if wrestling with something, distressed. Bjorn didn’t dare speak.

  Then Sir Vu lowered his hands. His eyes opened and locked, unwavering, on the translucent pulsing trumpet, as if deciding. Slowly he let his hands drop to his sides, his expression serious. After one last moment of silence, he reached for the flower.

  With a swift motion, he plucked it free from the vine.

  Bjorn’s eyes widened, stunned, and before he could even utter a word, Sir Vu lifted the tip of the trumpet flower to his lips…

  …and blew into it.

  The moment he did, the chrysolite vine’s glow intensified, first gently, then with blinding speed. Light surged upward, engulfing Sir Vu in a brilliant halo. The petals of the trumpet began to crystallize, blooming into a pale pink crystal while keeping their delicate, ethereal shape.

  Within seconds, Sir Vu vanished from Bjorn’s view, swallowed completely by the expanding radiance. The light stopped just inches from Bjorn’s face, close enough to warm his skin, as if acknowledging his presence, but not touching him.

  For long, breathless minutes, the glow pulsed, humming with a strange, ancient resonance. Then, gradually, it receded, and with it the mist began to thin, pulling away from the plaza like a tide drawing back to sea.

  When Sir Vu reappeared again, his expression remained carved in seriousness.

  His irises faintly glowed in magenta.

  In his fist rested the fully crystallized pale pink trumpet, gleaming like a perfect glass bloom. The vine at his feet was gone entirely, not a trace left on the soil. Bjorn swallowed hard, still gaping, rooted to the spot, unable to speak.

  Then... a spark flickered gently at the base of the Tree of Hope, like static dancing across bark. It suddenly flared, splitting into branching beams, and coursing upward. Light raced through the tree’s sap-veins, through roots, trunk, and all the way up into the highest twigs.

  Before Bjorn’s astonished eyes, the bark sealed itself, cracks knitting shut. Bald branches flushed with fresh life. New leaves unfurled in bursts: broad, star-shaped maple leaves, vibrant green and waxed with luminous veins, looking like they originally did, healthy and full.

  The Tree of Hope was reviving.

  Sir Vu, expression still serious and pensive, tightened his hold on the crystalized bloom then turned, facing the Tree of Hope, silent, distant.

  Far beyond the plaza, as the mist continued to retreat, a lone silhouette emerged. Bozo stood unmoving, his glowing golden eyes, which had pierced through the fog, now fading back to their usual hazel. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

  “Hope chose a jester,” he murmured.

  He turned around, walking away, worn leather boots clicking on the tiles, his smirk widening slightly in relief.

  “Two more to go.”

  --------------------------------------

  Rosalyn stood before the gate of the Abandoned Gardens, framed within a massive stone arch whose upper curve had long since crumbled. Wild roses climbed its broken edges, their thorns and bloomless stems tangled with cascades of white pendants of fallopia blossoms. The gate itself, sculpted metal vines and slender steel leaves, had been nearly swallowed by the creeping plants, as if nature were reclaiming the very artistry meant to honor it.

  Rosalyn lingered, arms resting uncertainly at her sides. She knew the gates weren’t locked, yet she hesitated. For days after her talk with Rodderick, the quiet ache in her chest had returned again and again in waves. Always stronger, always tugging. Her mind replayed the brief encounter in the Archives, the two dreams, the ghostlike flickers of LV’s presence… She tried shaking them off, only to feel them return moments later, settling over her like a memory she wasn’t meant to abandon nor wanting to.

  This morning she had come early, wandering the Academy’s sinuous, lush paths. A thin veil of mist clung to the grounds, giving everything a soft, silvery glow. Only a few students were drifting toward the main building; the rest of the campus hushed, empty at this hour.

  When she had reached the northwest fork, her steps slowed. The Abandoned Gardens lay beyond, quiet in the far corner, forgotten. And yet they were drawing her in, softly, insistently, like a call, like an echo.

  And so Rosalyn stood here now, planted before the ironwork gate, caught between reluctance and inevitability.

  At last she lifted her hand and pushed. The gates slid open without a sound.

  She entered.