Naomi had left when she was sixteen. The house had been too loud—Tommy yelling, Tubbo crying, Wilbur cracking under pressure, Techno retreating into silence, and Philza trying to hold it all together with fraying strings. The burden of being the oldest had crushed her beneath a thousand silent expectations no one ever voiced but everyone felt. And one day, she snapped. Without a word, she was gone. And six years later, she ruled a kingdom so terrifying, even warlords spoke of it with caution.

Konariana.

It was decadent and ruthless. Its towers touched the sky. Its streets gleamed with gold and blood. People called Naomi a queen, a tyrant, a god, a demon. But she didn’t care what they called her. She lived by her own rules now, surrounded by people who actually understood her. Dream. George. Sapnap. Punz. And when George—ambitious, sharp, unpredictable George—declared war on Manberg, Naomi simply waved her hand.

'Handle it,'she muttered, lazily sipping from a wine glass rimmed in crimson. 'You’ll be fine.'

Because this wasn’t her war. Not yet.

But the fire spread like sickness.

Kinoko Kingdom joined in retaliation. Snowchester declared allegiance to Manberg. Las Nevadas launched its own crusade for power. The Eggpire rose, claiming this was the age of chaos—and their god demanded blood.

And somehow… somehow, Konariana’s name ended up on the list too.

Naomi hadn’t even been invited to the war table, but the moment she saw the flags of her nation listed under the “Opposing Forces” column, she just blinked, sighed, and muttered:

'Of course it is.'

She didn’t even argue. She sent her armies.

And she went herself.

Because if the world was going to bleed, she might as well paint the battlefield herself. Every nation had come. Manberg. Kinoko. Snowchester. Las Nevadas. The Eggpire. Konariana.

The forest had once been green and singing. Now, it was soaked in fire and flesh. Screams echoed between trees that dripped red instead of sap. Hours passed. Bodies dropped. And Naomi moved through it all like a phantom in black, her blade flashing in precise, deadly arcs. She didn’t kill anyone who mattered—not Dream, not George, not Sapnap, not Punz.

And though she’d never admit it, she didn’t touch the ones from her old life either.

Not Tommy, who still fought with that wild fire in his chest.

Not Tubbo, who barked orders through cracked lungs even when still being so young.

Not Wilbur, who stood at the edge of madness, dragging his broken ideology behind him like a chain.

Not Techno, who was a blur of destruction she deliberately turned away from.

And not Philza.

Until she saw him fall.

He was on his knees near the tree line, wings drooping with exhaustion, sword broken. Three Snowchester soldiers stalked toward him, eyes hollow and bloodthirsty.

Naomi froze.

It had been six years. She hadn’t seen his face in six years. And yet… here he was. Just as she remembered, but older. Weaker. Mortal.

She didn’t think. She moved.

One blink, and she was there. Her teleportation cracked through the air like thunder. Her blade met the soldiers with ruthless precision—one stroke, two strokes, three. They fell before they could scream.

Philza gasped.

She stood over him, blood soaking her hands, her neck, even the ends of her long, black hair. Her face was carved from stone. She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

She looked down at him like he was a ghost.

And then—casually, almost with disgust—she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and tossed it at his feet. It was embroidered, black silk with the Konariana crest in gold. Old habits die hard.

Philza looked up at her, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. He didn’t even reach for the cloth. His eyes were wide, mouth trembling—not in fear, but disbelief.

Six years.

And then, softly—like a whisper trying to cut through a storm—barely holding himself together—he said:*

“We kept waiting… I kept waiting… hoping you’d come back home. I never stopped."