When the last Doomsday Beast, fighting to the bitter end, was reduced to cosmic dust under the combined attack of the Wanderer and the Ark of Wisdom, the brutal battle that had lasted for days finally came to an end.
The Antimatter Legion’s main force had been temporarily repelled.
The remaining enemy forces receded like the tide.
Blue had once again survived, with great difficulty, amidst ruins and blood.
In the starry sky, countless wreckage of warships floated like silent tombstones.
And the Wanderer, which had performed miracles, had all its light extinguished the moment it delivered the final blow.
Its battered frame, as if drained of its last ounce of energy, slowly and heavily knelt toward the nearest dock platform like an exhausted giant.
After a loud metallic groan, it fell silent, just as it had nine years ago, sinking into deathly stillness.
Before the cheers of victory could even rise, Herta’s heart was seized by an overwhelming, intense unease.
“Baida!” She didn’t even wait for the ship to fully dock.
She activated her personal propulsion unit and shot out of the Ark of Wisdom like a madwoman, flying toward the steel giant kneeling on scorched earth and wreckage.
She rushed to the Wanderer’s chest and stared at the severely deformed, partially melted cockpit door.
An icy fear nearly froze her solid.
She pulled out her high-energy cutting tool, normally used for precision repairs, and ignoring the risk of energy leaks, frantically cut through the thick door.
“ZZZZ—!” Sparks flew everywhere.
The screeching sound of tearing metal was deafening.
Finally, she cut an opening in the door.
Herta wasted no time in crawling inside.
The cockpit was filled with the heavy stench of blood, the smell of burnt metal, and a sense of emptiness—as if life itself had been burned away.
Then she saw a sight that made her soul tremble.
Baida’s body was pierced through from behind by several neural conduction metal spikes that had snapped, twisted, and even glowed red hot during the final fierce battle.
Like a broken doll, she was cruelly and firmly “nailed” to the pilot’s seat.
Blood had long soaked through her clothes, staining the seat and console beneath her.
Some had already congealed and turned black, a desperate shade of brown.
Her head hung limply against her chest, her once-smooth hair now matted with blood and dust.
“No…
no…!” Herta’s voice trembled uncontrollably.
She stumbled forward, using her bare hands to pry off the cold or scorching metal spikes, trying to free Baida.
Her fingers were burned and cut, but she felt nothing.
She finally removed the horrific spikes one by one and carefully lifted Baida’s body—light as a feather, cold as cosmic background radiation—from that seat of death, holding her tightly in her trembling arms.
“Baida…
Baida…
wake up…
look at me…” She knelt on the cold floor, holding her sister’s icy body, her voice choked with sobs.
Tears fell like broken beads, large drops splashing onto Baida’s pale, lifeless face.
“Big sister…
please…
open your eyes and look at me…
call me Herta one more time…”
She gently patted Baida’s back, rocking her, just as Baida had done to comfort her when they were children, as if that could wake her from her slumber.
“You said you’d always be with me…
you promised…
fool…
idiot…” She spoke incoherently, burying her face in Baida’s cold neck.
Her muffled cries eventually became heart-wrenching wails, like those of a wounded beast.
The sound echoed through the empty, silent cockpit, filled with endless sorrow and despair.
Then, she noticed that Baida’s clenched hand seemed to be holding something.
Trembling, with extreme gentleness, she pried open that cold, stiff hand.
Inside was a letter, completely soaked in blood, now dried and hardened to a deep brown.
The envelope was made from folded medical record paper, and on it, in crooked but painstakingly careful handwriting, was written:
To Herta
That was Baida’s handwriting.
The words she had secretly practiced countless times during her brief moments of lucidity over these nine years, finally able to write them just for her sister to read.
Herta’s heart clenched painfully, nearly stopping.
With hands stained with blood and tears, she carefully unfolded the blood-stained letter, as if handling a fragile treasure.
The handwriting was still crooked.
Some places were blurred because the writer was weak and trembling, and others were smeared by blood.
But every sentence pierced Herta’s heart like the sharpest arrow:
Herta:
By the time you read this letter, I probably won’t be able to hold you anymore.
I’m sorry.
Big sister might have to break her promise.
I can’t stay with you forever.
Actually, I was never really stupid.
Or at least, not that stupid.
When I was little, I learned slowly and talked late, because there was always a voice in my head telling me not to rush, that all I needed to do was think about you.
Later, I slowly understood that it might have been a kind of “protection,” hiding my real cleverness so I could love you more purely, with just instinct.
I know I can be annoying sometimes, always clinging to you and interrupting your work.
But I can’t help it.
When I hold you, my heart feels so steady and warm.
When I see you frown, I want to make you laugh (even though you always say I’m stupid).
When I see you tired, I want you to lean on me.
My world is so small that it can only hold one person—you.
That [I Reckon] ability, it’s amazing, right?
I don’t really understand it myself.
But I know that as long as it’s for you, it can do anything.
Building robots, piloting mechs—it’s all the same.
If it can protect you, I’d do anything.
These nine years, lying here, I actually figured out a lot of things.
About energy.
About Destruction.
Even about those stars and math you study.
I didn’t want to see you so tired, Herta.
After I’m gone, don’t be sad for too long.
You’re the smartest person in the whole universe, Herta!
You have to keep studying the stars, solving all the mysteries, going wherever you want to go.
Just…
sometimes, when you’re tired of looking at the stars, could you…
think of me?
Think of your big sister who’s a little foolish, but loves you more than anything?
And don’t keep calling everyone fools all the time.
Even if they might not be as smart as you…
Smile more.
You look the prettiest when you smile.
I love seeing you smile the most.
…
Goodbye, my little sister.
Live on for me too.
Live a wonderful life.
Live freely.
— Forever your loving foolish big sister, Baida
The letter ended there.
No flowery words.
No profound philosophy.
Only the simplest, most sincere feelings, just like Baida herself—pure enough to break your heart.
Herta stared blankly at the letter.
Every word was like a hammer, shattering the last of her defenses.
She finally understood that her seemingly clueless big sister had always loved her deeply, completely, in her own way.
She had even willingly hidden her own wisdom and played the part of a “fool” just to protect that pure sense of dependence.
“AAAAAAHHHHHH—————!!!”
A cry of anguish, so raw it barely sounded human, finally broke through all restraint and reason, erupting from deep within Herta’s throat.
She clutched the blood-stained letter tightly, holding Baida’s cold body in a death grip, sobbing until her whole body shook, crying as if her heart were being torn out—as if she had to let out all the emotions, all the dependence, all the reluctance, and all the regret of the past thirty years in that one moment.
That cry echoed through the silent mech wreckage, beneath the still-smoking starry sky, becoming the saddest footnote to this brutal victory.
After that day, Herta was still Herta.
She remained willful, arrogant, sharp-tongued, and viewed most people as fools.
She joined the Genius Society with undeniable talent, built the famous Herta Space Station that was known across the universe, and her desire for exploration reached unprecedented heights.
But those who knew her well could perhaps sense that she now carried an unbreakable layer of loneliness and sorrow, rooted deep in her soul.
Her willfulness seemed to hide an even deeper, unspoken obsession.
Her space station housed countless curious objects, including the heavily damaged remains of a black-and-white mech, and a box containing paper stained with brown blood, carefully preserved in the highest-security vault.
No one knew what that letter said.
All anyone knew was that from that day on, a part of the genius Herta’s life had died along with her “foolish” big sister, becoming the deepest hue in her eyes when she gazed at the stars.
And she, who had once perhaps dismissed such things, developed an unprecedented, deep, and painful interest in the realms of “existence,” “memory,” “life,” and “emotion”—interests she would spend the rest of her life exploring.
Because there, hidden, lay the last and warmest secret of her sister.