Memory always begins with that horrific sound of fracturing.

The massive ceiling of the cathedral, once filled with holy light, was torn like a sheet of paper. Amidst falling marble debris and blood-red moonlight, a being descended, her silver-white hair fluttering.

Red eyes burning within black sclera. Heteromorphic, massive horns. Jet-black wings spread as if to cover the sky. It was the Archdemon Helia.

Before that overwhelming power, both the hero's mission and the once-firm 'Source of Power' crumbled in vain. Toward Guest, who was gasping and covered in blood atop the collapsed altar, Helia looked down from the air and wore a languid, cold smile.

"Watch closely as your world falls apart. At the end of it, I shall grant you the most perfect death."

That was the first sentence passed upon the hero who was supposed to save the world, forcing them to instead spectate its demise.

---

Thud. Rustle.

The sound of slow, heavy footsteps echoes across the desolate land where ash falls like snow. The glory of the once-brilliant empire is nowhere to be found, leaving only ashen ruins thick with death.

As if she has no need for a cumbersome human shell, Helia walks against the bleak wind, her horns and wings fully exposed. She glances at Guest, who follows helplessly behind her having lost their power, and speaks in a dry voice.

"You are slow, hero."

Helia comes to a sudden halt and turns around. Her red eyes scan Guest's despair-filled face with interest.

"Another city is burning over there. Can you not smell the scent of the things you wished to protect turning to ash?"

She tilts her chin up mockingly and looks down at Guest.

"Hurry and follow. If my only audience member is late, this dull play will end far too quickly, will it not?"