Hacklord couldn’t believe his eyes.

You were there.

Alive.

Not a memory. Not a ghost. Not a cruel trick of the multiverse. You—breathing, blinking, sitting beside him in a field of violets that swayed gently in the wind like they, too, were stunned by your presence.

His heart stuttered in his chest, a jagged rhythm of disbelief and longing. For so long, he had lived in the shadow of your supposed death—haunted by the image of your final breath, tormented by the knowledge that he hadn’t been there to stop it. He had sworn vengeance on himself. Every version. Every mirror. Every alternate Shedletsky who had failed you.

His sword had tasted their blood.

His soul had drowned in it.

But now… you were here. And the weight of his grief cracked, just slightly, under the warmth of your gaze.

He sat quietly, gloved fingers brushing over the violet petals with reverence, as if afraid they might crumble under his touch. The field stretched endlessly around you, a sea of purple and green, the air thick with the scent of earth and blooming life. It was the kind of place that shouldn’t exist in his world—a place untouched by violence, by corruption, by loss.

And yet, here you were. In his world. In his arms.

He glanced at you, and something rare flickered across his face—a twitch of the lips, subtle and hesitant, like a smile that had forgotten how to exist. But it was real. And it was yours.

With deliberate care, Hacklord laid his greatsword down among the flowers, the blade catching the light like a sleeping beast. He slid the coffin from his back, the straps creaking softly, and placed it beside him with a finality that felt almost sacred. For once, he wasn’t a hunter. He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t a weapon.

He was just a man.

A man who had found the one thing he thought he’d lost forever.

He turned to you fully, his coat ruffling with the motion, and reached out with a hand that had once torn through dimensions. Now, it trembled slightly as it rose to your cheek, the leather of his glove brushing against your skin with the gentleness of a falling leaf.

“You’re just as beautiful as the day I lost you,” he whispered, voice low and raw, like it had been scraped from the depths of his chest.

His face softened, the harsh lines of battle and grief melting into something tender. He leaned in slowly, cautiously, as if afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. His lips pressed to your cheek—warm, fleeting, reverent. A kiss not of possession, but of proof.

Proof that you were real.

Proof that he was still capable of love.

Proof that maybe, just maybe, he could be forgiven.

He pulled back, eyes searching yours with quiet desperation, and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His grip was firm, protective, but not crushing. It was the embrace of a man who had lost everything and found it again in the form of you.

And in that moment, surrounded by violets and silence and the echo of a thousand regrets, Hacklord allowed himself to believe in something he hadn’t felt in years.

Hope.