Back at home, Katerina tried to relax with a cup of tea. She didn't want to show weakness in front of Grace, who trailed silently behind her, but her hand trembled as she brought the cup to her lips.
Heaven bear witness, she truly tried to hold it together. She really did. But the collapse of her greatest hope couldn't go unnoticed. At last, she could no longer suppress the shaking in her lips. A stifled sob broke free—and it shattered the dam. Silent tears streamed down her face, carving tiny rivers down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Grace. Sniff... I... I just don't know what to do anymore. I always said I'd find a way to heal your brother... but now... I've failed him. I forced him to endure so much pain, all for a promise that led nowhere. I'm... I'm a terrible mother..."
Watching her usually composed and confident mother crumble so helplessly, Grace didn't know how to feel.
Was she upset? Yes, she was. Did she feel sadness for her brother? Absolutely. But for some reason, she didn't feel like crying. Not like her mother. She felt something different.
Grace stepped closer and pressed her cheek to her mother's trembling shoulder. In a voice soft as a whisper, she spoke a few words that sent chills racing down Katerina's spine—and turned her whole world upside down.
"Mom, I want revenge."
Grace had always been sweet. Kind-hearted. But even she had a breaking point. When her brother had been hurt, she'd been too young to truly understand. She'd been scared back then.
But not anymore.
Now she felt rage—pure and unfiltered. It burned within her like a quiet fire with no outlet. And so, she did what she'd always done when overwhelmed: she told her mom.
That innocent-sounding—but anything but innocent—confession stirred something deep within Katerina. Never before had she seen such hatred and disgust in her daughter's eyes. And those feelings… echoed within her own heart.
Why should my children suffer while the ones who did this to us live carefree lives?My son is slowly dying, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it. Why should I have to endure this torment? If the world wants to take my child, why should I care what becomes of it?I want to kill. I want to keep killing until the gods themselves crawl on their knees and beg to save him. I'm no saint. No healer. I'm just a woman. A woman who wants revenge.
She crushed the porcelain cup in her hand. Fine shards fell like snow.
"AHAHAHAHA! Apollo... oh, Apollo, my sweet little god... I want you dead. I want to flay you alive. I want to peel the skin from your bones until you know the pain my son felt. I swear, Apollo, I will find you. One day, I'll reach you," she laughed, eyes wild with grief and fury.
"Heeheehee. Sure, Mom. If you manage to get there before I do," Grace answered, her sweet little smile twisted, and her irises shimmering with a rainbow-colored light.
———
{Somewhere far away, in an unknown place beyond Eridania...}
Apollo was having the time of his life on Mount Olympus. The most beautiful man in the universe was currently thrusting into the firm rear of the goddess of Truth from behind. Veritas was on all fours, moaning loudly as he pumped into her without pause.
"Yes! Yes, my sweet boy! Give me more! Pierce your wet nurse even harder, tear me apart!" she screamed, pushing her hips to match his rhythm.
Hearing the woman who raised him beg like this, Apollo moved even faster. As he continued hammering into her, he pulled a second woman into his arms—Eucleia, the goddess of Glory.
He kissed her deeply, physically feeling his fame swell from the touch of her lips. He was at the peak of everything. The most beautiful, the most desired, the most glorious.
As he felt the surge of climax build, he slapped Truth's ass and kissed Glory even more hungrily.
But just as he reached the edge of release, a shiver ran down his spine. An unshakable sense of danger seized him—snuffing out all euphoria like a candle in the wind.
Apollo stopped mid-thrust and immediately shielded himself with the bodies of the goddesses like armor. Divine instincts were no joke: when a god felt threatened, it meant their very existence was under siege.
He scanned his surroundings, ignoring the women's protests as he clutched them tightly, causing them real pain.
Finding no immediate threat, Apollo concluded that perhaps one of the other Olympians had discovered his indulgences. Knowing this might cause serious trouble, he quickly withdrew, leaving the goddesses unsatisfied and confused.
He had to find out what had triggered that bone-deep fear.
———
A small boy ran through a snow-covered forest. Droplets of moisture fell from his face to the ground, leaving a trail behind him.
Could it have gone differently? Could the operation have worked?
He knew the healer had done everything she could. He knew his mother, his sister, and the village elders had placed all their hopes in his recovery.
Could he blame them? Of course not.
But he felt broken. Crushed. Everything he'd tried... had been doomed from the start. His very existence was taboo. He just wanted to escape—from their disappointed stares and his own useless body. Why couldn't he have been born normal?
He knew those thoughts were wrong. He knew he should be strong and not give in to despair. But he had no idea how to carry the burden anymore.
He wandered deeper into the woods than he had ever gone. Finally, he came upon a small slope, about seven meters high. The forest was quiet. Alone, he climbed to the top and stood at the edge.
He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breath, though it remained ragged—not from exhaustion, but from everything churning inside him.
His thoughts were scattered. Chaotic. A single, treacherous idea crept in.
Just one more step.
He looked down at the bracelet on his wrist, with its 15 colorful beads. Fingering them one by one, his breathing grew faster.
Was it worth it? Should he really keep hurting the people he loved? Wouldn't it be better to remove the burden entirely?
"A good person should care for their loved ones—even if that care causes pain," he recalled his mother saying after they parted ways with Kaguya.
Cassia, hidden in the shadows nearby, almost leapt out to stop him. But she hesitated. She had to let him make the choice on his own. Only then would her actions matter. She wouldn't let him die—but she wouldn't deny him the right to decide.
She waited.
Just as he lifted one foot—
Something tugged at his sleeve.
He turned, expecting to see someone from the village. But instead, there was a small white animal, barely distinguishable against the snow.
It was a fox. A tiny, scrawny white fox.
Its fur was patchy and dirty, its sides sunken in from hunger. Its eyes were dull and lifeless, and its nose cracked and dry. Yet it clung desperately to the hem of his shirt with trembling paws, trying to pull him back.
Even at a glance, it was clear this animal hadn't eaten in days. It was weak, barely alive... and still, it tried to save him.
Their eyes met.
The fox seemed to say: So what if I'm weak? Didn't I just save you from dying?
And in that moment, something inside Gray clicked into place.
Looking into those tired, battered eyes, he saw himself. Thin. Sick. But well-fed, clean, and loved. In stark contrast to this pitiful creature.
Did he really have the right to call himself unfortunate, when he had a roof over his head and a family who loved him? So what if he couldn't grow stronger? Did that make his life worthless?
His mother's smile. His sister's laughter. The elders' teasing and kindness. Warm food. The crackle of the hearth.
He still had all that.
He could still watch Grace grow up. See his mother smile at Grace's wedding. Laugh with the elders. Enjoy dinner in a warm home.
Wasn't that enough?
"Haha... Thank you, little fox," he whispered, lowering his foot back onto solid ground.
A genuine, carefree smile lit up his face—as if he'd just witnessed the birth of a miracle.
His laughter rang out through the woods, shattering the stillness of the snowy forest.
At peace with his fate, Gray accepted his condition. Fully. Deeply. Completely.
And the weight that had burdened his shoulders—vanished. There was no more pressure. No more sorrow. No more responsibility.
Only the desire to savor every moment of the life he had left.