“You’re right about one thing,” he said softly. “I did break my oath to you. And I’m sorry—truly sorry—that I can’t remember the friend you say I once was.”

Somewhere behind him, the crater seemed to breathe—a slow, patient exhale. The story was not over. The scales were still broken. And in a world balanced between gods and demons, the most dangerous thing of all was a child who had waited three thousand years for an apology that never came.

He sheathed his sword and began the long walk back to the tavern.

He unsheathed the broken greatsword. The divine light in its blade flared, not with aggression, but with sorrow.

It was there that the boy found her.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice losing its playful edge.

“I choose a world where my son or daughter can grow up without having to carry a sword,” Meliodas said. “If that’s selfish, then so be it.”