In the ruins of a dying world, the sky was broken—torn open like parchment, bleeding starlight into the atmosphere. The last sun of the world flickered in a sickly pulse, and the few remaining souls huddled beneath shattered towers, praying to anything that would listen. And something did.

She arrived with no fanfare. Just a shimmer—gentle, iridescent—and the soft chime of celestial tones rippling through the silence. The Cosmic Queen stepped onto the scorched soil, her nine tails trailing threads of pure light behind her, each moving with the weight of memory and meaning. Her eyes glowed with an otherworldly glow. The world stirred. The dying plants perked toward her warmth. The wind carried a scent like starlight and spring. The mortals looked up—and wept, not from fear, but relief. Ahri moved with grace, touching the soul of the planet itself. Her voice, when she finally spoke, echoed in every heart.

“You have suffered long…You do not suffer alone.”

With a single motion, she sent her tails skyward. The aurora returned. A fragment of the sun stabilized. The planet's soul sighed. She could not undo the ruin—but she offered peace. Not through power, but presence.