The Arena Field of Eternal Frost has collapsed. The remnants of fog and ice crystals are now merely silver dust drifting in the air. Fitran stands still amidst the rubble, his body drenched in blood, his breath labored, his eyes staring blankly as if searching for something that never arrives.

  No cheers of victory can be heard, no applause echoes—only a silence that pierces deeply and grows heavier. Even the Voidlight in his grasp appears to dim, as if refusing to witness the new emptiness that has been born.

  Suddenly, a soft voice manifests—not from the outside, but from within Fitran's own mind.

  “So, is this the final result? You win, but why does your heart still feel frozen?” whispers the voice, a faint echo of his younger self.

  Fitran does not respond immediately. He gazes at his hands, noticing the blood that has congealed between his fingers. It feels like thorns piercing into his skin. In a voice barely above a whisper, he murmurs, “Every victory in this spiral only adds layers of emptiness, doesn’t it?”

  The voice chuckles softly, bitterly, “You enjoy discussing names, will, freedom… But do you truly understand what it feels like to lose everything just to survive here?”

  Fitran sighed, slowly stepping into the remnants of what once was, each step seeming to awaken memories of the battle that had just unfolded—Yuki-Onna's shattered gaze, the chaotic run of the ice wolves, the eternal mist cracking under the weight of trembling cries.

  Suddenly, a thickening mist crept in beside him. From within that haze, faintly, the figure of Yuki-Onna materialized—or perhaps it was merely a shadow of the memories that lingered.

  “No one truly wins in this cycle,” Yuki-Onna said, her voice softer and more fragile than usual, “Every soul that arrives only adds to the wounds, leaving behind new marks for the next spirit.”

  Fitran closed his eyes, his voice barely a whisper, “Do you want me to feel guilty? I’m no longer the boy seeking forgiveness from a presence that has long departed.”

  Yuki-Onna stepped forward carefully, her footsteps almost silent on the shards of ice. “Guilty or not, wounds will remain, Fitran. Do you really believe the spirits you ‘free’ genuinely wish to depart, or do they merely want to be remembered for having existed?”

  Fitran clenched his teeth, fury surging within him. “I don't have time to mourn every name shattered in my path.”

  The shadow of Yuki-Onna smiled with a melancholic aura, “But about your name, have you ever truly possessed it, Fitran? Or are you merely a collector of wills, perpetually fleeing from the emptiness within yourself?”

  Fitran sank down onto the cold ground, his body trembling—not from the physical wounds he bore, but from the emotional assault that was difficult to accept even within himself. He covered his face with his hands, his breath coming in shaky gasps.

  From another corner of the spiral, a soft voice echoed—it was the spirit of a child, perhaps one of Yuki-Onna’s victims from long ago. Its voice was gentle, almost like the rustle of the wind.

  “Why did you kill him?” the spirit asked, in a tone of innocent curiosity.

  Fitran lifted his head, his eyes reddened, “Because he was the warden of this prison. Without his destruction, this spiral would never reach its end.”

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  The spirit approached without fear,

  “Once, Yuki-Onna saved me from death. She allowed me to sleep without nightmares. You know, sleeping without dreams is far better than being chased by fear all the time, right?”

  Fitran gently shook his head, “In this world, there is no sleep without dreams. I’ve tried countless times. They always return, darker and sharper.”

  The child’s spirit crouched in front of Fitran, “Do you feel afraid, Fitran?”

  Fitran sighed, a faint smile spreading across his lips, yet his eyes appeared empty. “I fear two things: being forgotten and forgetting. It’s a pity this spiral forces everyone to choose one or the other.”

  Suddenly, the fog thickened, revealing a third voice, this time emanating from his own shadow—a brutal and cynical inner manifestation.

  “You are seen as a hero by your enemies, Fitran. Yet, in the annals of history, you are a monster. How many names have you erased to rewrite your own fate?”

  Fitran stood, staring at that shadow, his voice heavy with bitterness. “I never asked to be recorded by anyone. All I long for is a world that stops laughing at a name that was never called.”

  The shadow laughed, its voice echoing off the spiral walls, “If that’s the case, why do you keep fighting? You could simply choose to remain silent, like Yuki-Onna.”

  Fitran turned his face away, his voice barely above a whisper, “Silence is just another form of death. I was not born to freeze in this season.”

  The fog began to clear. Between the gaps of the fields, the shadows of two spirits appeared, a man and a woman; their faces were indistinct, but their eyes were sharp, filled with unasked questions.

  The woman spoke first, her voice soft and calm, “Fitran, do you ever regret burning these fields? Or perhaps, do you just wish to see how far your will can harm the world that exists?”

  Fitran sighed and lowered his head, “I have long surpassed the stage of regret. Every time I feel regret, it only adds another layer to the spiral. If I stop now, this world—a world that hasn’t even remembered my name—will destroy me.”

  The man interjected, “So your goal is merely to show the world that you once existed? Or are you really seeking vengeance against every field that has rejected you?”

  Fitran gazed at them with a clear yet cold look, “I want the world to know that even the coldest field can be shattered if someone dares to push it to the very end. This is not about revenge. It's not about recognition. It's just… a test, to see if anything truly eternal exists behind all these lies.”

  The spirit of the woman bowed her head for a moment. “You’ve forgotten, Fitran, sometimes what endures is the pain you leave behind.”

  Fitran slowly stood up, regulating his breath; the Voidlight in his hand had become a shadow, almost formless. He walked between the remnants of the field, his fingers grazing the walls of ice that had yet to fully melt.

  Suddenly, a faint giggle echoed from a distance—a silhouette of Yuki-Onna stood at the end of the spiral, half-real and half-dream.

  “Are you planning to erase my name, Fitran? Ironically, you’re only adding another name to the list of wounds that will never heal.”

  Fitran smiled faintly, neither angry nor proud. “Maybe. Or perhaps every wound creates a new path home for those who were never allowed to return.”

  Yuki-Onna began to fade slowly, her voice echoing, “If you endure long enough, you will realize. All the fields you’ve shattered are but illusions. What truly endures are regrets and the desire to start over—again and again.”

  Fitran stepped out of the battlefield, his steps feeling heavy, as if the weight upon his shoulders would never lessen. Behind him, the arena lay silent in stillness, though the voices of spirits, whispers of the seasons, and the echoes of names left unfinished continued to resonate in his mind.

  He spoke to himself, almost as if in prayer, “I realize I am a monster. But I am also a victim. Yet as long as this spiral keeps spinning, I will keep moving forward. Not for victory. Not for redemption. Just so this world, at least once, can stop repeating the same pain.”

  In the distance, silhouettes of other Yokai Generals waited; the new battlefield was ready with the next challenge. However, Fitran understood that the deepest wounds were not from each battle, but from conversations that never found closure in his own mind.

  He continued on his path, carrying with him all the names he had erased, all the battlegrounds he had scorched, and one question that remained unanswered:

  “How many more names must I destroy... before myself vanish from this spiral?”