The final army gathered on the Blooming Field.
Not warriors. Not soldiers. Believers.
Fairies with cracked wings. Healers. Musicians. Children. Creatures once lost to shadow. Trees that had grown from song. Spirits reborn in laughter.
And above them all, Lucky hovered—wings of starlight, roots trailing from her heels, her eyes radiant.
She did not command them.
She invited them.
"To stand for each other," she said. "To fight not with hate—but with the memory of joy."
The army roared—not in rage, but in unity.
The final battle was no longer between light and dark.
It was between despair and defiance.