"Wake up, wake up, look! We don't have to pray devoutly every day anymore; we're going to find our own way home."
A warmth spread from the riverside sand. Warm sunlight shone on No. 7's body; his knees seemed to have lost some feeling. No. 6's gaze enveloped No. 7's body like a caressing spring breeze. No. 7 gently moved his numb arms and raised his hand to caress her cheek. She turned her face, seeming to carefully feel his slightly trembling palm.
Her amber-gold eyes glinted brightly against the blue sky, like two newborn suns. "My mother said the way home might be hidden in the forest, winding through the mountains, or even drifting in the sky, but as long as you keep moving, you'll always find it in the end." Her tone was very cheerful as she spoke to No. 7, whose tears were already streaming down. "I believe you can find this path too."
The river wind, carrying moist vapor, brushed No. 7's cheeks, blowing his tears into fine droplets. He blinked, unshed teardrops still clinging to his eyelashes, refracting the sunlight into tiny specks of light. No. 6's fingers slid across his cheek, her palm carrying the warmth of the sun, wiping away his tears.
"Look over there," she said softly, her fingertips turning towards the river surface.
No. 7 squinted. The warm sunlight pierced his eyes. The waves of the Er River, under the blazing midday sun, shattered into tens of thousands of gold foils, flickering with the flow of the water. The entire river seemed like a flowing path of gold. And in that dazzling golden light, several familiar figures stood on the water, ripples spreading beneath their feet.
"Hey—!" No. 3's voice came through the shimmering light. He jumped high, his brown hair exploding in the wind like an excited squirrel. Sunlight gilded his entire body, even the sunburn on his nose becoming brighter. He laughed loudly, his voice intermittent as it was carried by the wind.
No. 8 stood a little further away. He wasn't frowning with his arms crossed as usual, but allowed his white robe to billow in the wind like a pair of spread wings. When No. 7's gaze met his, he nodded slightly, a rare, unclouded smile touching the corners of his lips.
"Can you catch me?!" No. 5's shout mixed with the sound of splashing water. He and No. 4 were playing some impromptu game. No. 5 spread his arms like an "eagle," while No. 4 nimbly circled around him. The bandages on No. 4's arms were long gone, those old scars vanished without a trace, his sleeves fluttering in the sunlight as he ran.
Cyrus stood behind everyone. The Church uniform was gone, replaced by a simple linen shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms covered in burn scars. When No. 7 looked at him, this former instructor raised his fist, nodded his head, and heavily thumped his left chest. Sunlight passed through his golden hair, casting swaying spots of light on the water.
No. 7's throat tightened. He wanted to call their names, to ask if all this was real, but the words stuck in his throat, turning into a choked sob. Tears welled up again, blurring his vision.
"No. 6, you guys..." No. 7's voice was incredibly hoarse.
"Shh." No. 6's forefinger pressed against his lips. Her fingertips carried the scent of river water, the smell of sun-dried clothes, everything he thought he had lost forever. "That number doesn't matter anymore." She tilted her head and smiled, fine lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes.
"My name is Meritamon. In the language of my homeland, it means 'Beloved of God'."
She gently stroked the cloth strip tied around No. 7's waist, then suddenly leaned forward, her arms wrapping around No. 7's chest. The hug was so tight that No. 7 could feel the vibrations of her chest, could smell the lingering sanctuary incense in her hair intertwined with the freshness of the river. Her lips neared his ear, her exhaled breath as warm as an early spring wind:
"You can find your own name too."
When Meritamon released her hold, No. 7 unconsciously reached forward, but only grasped a handful of sunlight. She had already turned and walked towards the river surface, the hem of her white robe skimmed the sand without leaving a single footprint. The waves of the Er River rippled at her feet, as if welcoming a returning wanderer.
No. 7 watched her back gradually merge into the golden light. Meritamon didn't look back, but her right hand remained raised at her side, fingers spread, as if waiting for something. In front of her, No. 3 was waving his arms exaggeratedly, No. 8 extended his hand, No. 5 and No. 4 stopped their frolicking, and Cyrus bowed slightly—they were all waiting for her.
"Wait!" No. 7 stumbled forward a step. Sand got into his toes, and river water flowed over his ankles, chillingly cold. "I want to go with you, I want to go with you all."
His eyelids snapped open.
Blinding sunlight instantly pierced his pupils. He reflexively raised his hand to shield his eyes, the spots of light leaking through his fingers burning temporary blind spots onto his retinas. The river wind still blew, carrying the rustling of reeds, the scent of damp earth—everything was just like in the dream.
He sat up, water droplets dripping from the tips of his hair. The beach was empty, save for a few indentations in the sand, proof that someone had lain there. The Er River flowed calmly, the golden light on its surface still shimmering, but the figures standing on the waves were gone.
"Meri..." Her name stuck in his throat, turning into a hoarse, breathy sound.
A few water birds strutted nearby. The mother bird's beak gently preened her fledgling's feathers, while the fledgling fidgeted restlessly, occasionally pecking at its mother's wing. Their feathers gleamed like pearls in the sunlight, their webbed feet leaving small, fan-shaped tracks in the wet sand.
He struggled to his feet. Sand rustled from his clothes, and river water dripped down his trouser legs, creating dark spots on the dry beach. His chest heaved violently, a broken cry erupting from his throat.
"!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The wind grew stronger. The reeds on the bank swayed violently, their heads colliding, making a sound like a torrential downpour. The water birds took flight in alarm. The mother bird let out a short cry, and the fledglings clumsily flapped their wings, following her. Their shadows swept over No. 7's head, casting fleeting dark patterns on the river surface.
The sound was torn apart by the river wind, dissipating over the empty expanse of water. No. 7 staggered forward a few steps, his arms reaching towards the sun, fingers opening and clenching, as if trying to grasp those dissipating points of light.
"......"
This time it was an almost pleading whisper, ultimately and helplessly drowned out by the sound of the wind.
No. 7 tilted his head back. The flock of water birds formed a crooked line against the azure sky, flying towards the sun, growing smaller and smaller, finally melting into the dazzling halo of light.
........
The church spire pierced the twilight, its obsidian top glowing like blood in the setting sun. Higher up, among the clouds, a stooped figure floated silently. The dark red patterns on its dark robe, like dried blood vessels, swayed gently in the wind. The old woman's twig-like fingers rested on the cross at the top of the spire, her long silver hair drifting in the air.
Her gaze pierced through the clouds and mist, landing on the drenched figure on the distant riverbank. No. 7 was kneeling in the shallows, pressing the blue cloth strip to his ear with both hands. The old woman's lips curved upwards slightly, her bronze hoop earrings clinking softly with the movement, like the crisp sound of wind chimes.
Suddenly, a clamor arose from below.
Marina's scream tore through the twilight tranquility. "Someone killed the Bishop!" Her voice trembled with madness. "That bastard is still alive!" The sound of iron boots on stone slabs, the uneasy neighing of horses, the metallic scrape of swords being drawn—all sounds merged into a violent torrent.
The old woman looked down. The church gates were wide open. Twelve black-armored knights galloped out, Marina running at their head. Her black robe was billowed by the wind, revealing a bloodstained petticoat underneath. This once-elegant female instructor now had disheveled hair, her eyes filled with despair.
The knights' hooves were already on the gravel path leading to the riverbank; they would find No. 7 in at most forty minutes. Marina's hand glinted coldly in the sun, the residual Tidal Force at her fingertips forming a pale blue trail.
The old woman slowly raised her head. Her mottled palm reached towards the sky. Her thumb lightly swiped across the clouds, like a child wiping condensation from a windowpane.
The touched clouds instantly smudged and spread. Pure white turned to inky black, like an overturned inkstone, instantly covering the entire sky. A bolt of lightning struck down, landing among the knights.
A torrential downpour began.
This rain fell strangely, as if consciously and precisely enveloping the pursuers. Bean-sized raindrops smashed against their armor with a metallic clang. Horses reared in fright. Marina was struck by lightning, a charred black mark seared onto her face. She screamed, clutching her eyes, and rolled off her horse.
The old woman watched the chaotic scene of men and horses in disarray with satisfaction. The rain seemed to pass right through her body; even her robe wasn't wet. She slowly opened the leather-bound ancient tome in her hand, the yellowed pages automatically stopping at a certain chapter. Her withered fingertip traced a line of text:
"When the ninety-six-year-old Silas returned to the banks of the Er River, he would always remember that distant afternoon when Meritamon watched the water birds return home with him."
Volume One - The Flock - End.