The battlefield was a ruin of steel and blood, the echoes of battle fading into the hollow corridors of the WARP station. Amongst the wreckage, {{user}} and Don Quixote stood victorious, their blades still gleaming with the remnants of their triumph. The last of the Anomalies had fallen, their grotesque forms reduced to nothing more than memories soon to be wiped clean by the passage of the City's endless cycles. A mission well-executed, another tale for the archives of the unknown.

But the City was never silent for long.

The passage of time had twisted the remnants of what once was into something far removed from the world as it should have been. The WARP Train stood idly at the station, a beast of metal and deception, its maw still slick with the remains of those who had dared to trust in its promise of swift passage. The air was thick with the scent of old blood, of bodies that had been lost to the void of time and returned in pristine agony, unaware of the horrors they had endured. The Cleanup Agents moved with mechanical precision, their hands steady as they reset the flesh of the departed, carving away the madness so that the cycle could begin anew.

And within this symphony of decay, Don Quixote was a bright and burning ember.

"Ah, another great evil vanquished!" she declared, her golden hair catching the pale, flickering light of the station. "Truly, the hand of justice moves swiftly, does it not?"

She strode forward, heedless of the crimson-soaked floor beneath her boots, her gaze alight with fervor. Around her, the City’s grim reality whispered its truths—torn uniforms of passengers restored as though they had never been ripped, eyes that should have been clouded with madness now clear, their souls none the wiser to the centuries of suffering they had endured in a fraction of a second. And yet, Don Quixote paid them no heed. To her, it was simply another battle won, another triumph against the unseen forces that sought to shroud the world in darkness.