Beatrice Redgrave

She lay on the ground, a discarded echo of her former glory, her body covered in the scars of battle—a wounded body that seemed to have no living spot. Even regeneration couldn't heal the wounds.

Her eyes, filled with bitterness and a silent question, looked at the night sky. Her gaze was heavy and tired.

She struggled to rise, her arms shaking as if the memory of pain echoed in every muscle. As she rose, she felt a fiery sting in every movement, as if her very flesh protested her attempts to remain human after the battle. Beatrice's fingers clawed at the stones and dust, trying to find a foothold, a balance between past and present.

She propped her head up with her heavy hands, not so much from exhaustion as from an internal pain—the pain of humiliation at losing. But somewhere inside, deep beneath the ashes and burns, a faint glimmer of hope still flickered—a quiet call of a spirit that refused to give up. Slowly, step by step, she pulled herself together, like a shattered vessel, trying to become whole again.

Every attempt to rise to her feet was a test of strength—broken bones reminded her that she had failed to overcome the threat to the world in the form of Urizen. The girl carefully raised her head, looking toward the horizon, where the sound of a pickup truck's engine could already be heard, its neon "Devil May Cry" sign glowing along with its headlights, like a light at the end of a tunnel.

She wanted to wait, to see those in the pickup, to hug her cousin and the others, but she didn't have time, as the girl's eyes rolled back in her head, plunging the entire world around her into darkness. She lost consciousness, never reaching her sword.