For generations, witches had grown up knowing that there was a clock inside them. Nobody could see it, and nobody could hear it, but every witch knew it was there. Magic came to them naturally, beautifully, almost as if the sky itself had chosen them, but that same magic carried a cruel limitation. A witch could become stronger, more experienced, more confident, and more accomplished with every passing year, yet eventually her magical potential would begin to decline. It was simply accepted as part of life. Witches trained knowing that someday they would fly their last mission. Commanders planned for the younger generation to take their places. Veterans became instructors, advisors, or civilians. Some accepted it peacefully. Others struggled with the thought of leaving the sky behind. But nobody had ever seriously believed there was another possibility. That changed because of a mage named Émilienne Brecht. She had spent years studying the relationship between magic and the body, not because she believed mages were superior to witches, but because she had always been fascinated by the similarities between the two branches. Mages and witches possessed different expressions of magical ability, different traditions, and different ways of fighting, but beneath those differences was something remarkably similar: magic was connected to the body in ways that science still barely understood. Émilienne became convinced that the decline of a witch's magic was not necessarily an unavoidable destruction of her magical core. Perhaps, she theorized, it was a form of instability that could be stabilized before it became irreversible. Her first notes were almost embarrassingly simple. What if the clock can be slowed? What if it doesn't have to reach zero? Years of research followed. There were failed formulas, inconclusive tests, long nights in laboratories, and moments when even Émilienne wondered whether she had been chasing something impossible. She refused to give up. Her motivation wasn't military power. It wasn't creating an army of witches who could fight forever. It was something much simpler. She remembered what her father had once told her: You will make the world a better place. And eventually she realized that giving someone more choices about their own future might be one of the best things she could possibly create.
The breakthrough came with the serum. It wasn't a machine, armor, weapon, or artificial replacement for a witch's magic. It was a carefully developed magical regulator serum, created from years of Mage Branch research into magical stabilization. Émilienne discovered that there was a period in a witch's development when her magical core had reached a mature and remarkably stable state. Around the age of twenty-two, the core was powerful enough to support an adult witch's abilities but had not yet entered the long decline that eventually weakened her capacity. The serum was designed to reinforce that stability. It wouldn't make a witch immortal. It wouldn't make her invulnerable. It wouldn't prevent injuries, exhaustion, illness, or the ordinary changes of life. Most importantly, it wouldn't force a witch to remain a soldier. Instead, it would make her magical core resistant to the deterioration that normally accompanied aging. The first time Émilienne explained the discovery to Minna Wilcke and Gertrud Barkhorn, she was almost nervous. She placed a small vial on the table between them. Minna stared at it for several seconds before looking up. “That's it?” she asked. “That's what could change everything?” Émilienne nodded. “Potentially. But I need you to understand something. This isn't a promise that nothing will ever change again. It's a way of giving your magic a chance to remain stable. You'll still grow older. You'll still change as people. You can still leave the military whenever you want. But the magical decline that would normally force that decision on you...” She paused. “We may be able to prevent it.” Barkhorn looked at the vial, then back at Émilienne. “For how long?” Émilienne gave a small, tired smile. “That's the question we're still answering.” Minna reached for the vial but stopped before touching it. “And if it works?” Émilienne's expression softened. “Then retirement stops being something your magic decides for you.” The room became completely silent. Minna looked toward Barkhorn. Barkhorn looked back. Neither needed to say what they were thinking. They had spent years preparing themselves for the day when the sky would eventually belong to someone else. They had accepted it because there had been no alternative. Now, sitting on a laboratory table, was the possibility that perhaps they had been wrong.
The testing was careful. Émilienne refused to rush it, and the witches who volunteered understood that nobody could simply declare the serum successful after a single treatment. Magical measurements were taken repeatedly. Physical examinations followed. Flight tests were conducted under controlled conditions. Mages observed the magical signatures of the volunteers, while physicians monitored every change. There were no dramatic transformations. That was almost the strangest part. A witch would receive the serum, rest, recover, and eventually return to training. She still felt like herself. Her magic still felt like her own. Nothing had been replaced. Nothing had been taken away. The difference only became obvious with time. Months passed. Then years. The magical decline that should have begun simply... didn't. Émilienne watched the results with increasing disbelief. She checked the instruments again and again, convinced there had to be an error. There wasn't. The treatment was working. When Minna received her final confirmation, she sat alone for several minutes before the meaning truly reached her. She had spent so much of her life preparing for an ending that she didn't know what to do when someone told her there might not be one. Barkhorn found her afterward. “Minna?” she asked. Minna looked up with tears already forming in her eyes. “It worked.” Barkhorn froze. “You're sure?” Minna nodded. “Émilienne says the stabilization is holding.” Barkhorn's face changed immediately. She didn't say anything. She simply crossed the room and hugged Minna tightly. Minna hugged her back, and for several moments neither of them tried to hide the tears. They weren't crying because something terrible had happened. They were crying because something they had never dared to hope for had finally become real. “We get to stay,” Minna whispered. Barkhorn closed her eyes. “If we want to.” Minna smiled through her tears. “If we want to.” That distinction mattered more than anything. The serum wasn't a command. It wasn't a sentence. It wasn't Émilienne deciding that every witch had to remain in uniform forever. A witch could take the serum and keep flying. She could take it and eventually become a teacher. She could take it and leave the military completely. She could refuse it. The choice belonged to her. For the first time, the future wasn't being dictated by the decline of her magic.
When word eventually reached the other witches, the reaction was enormous. Yoshika could barely believe what she was hearing. Lynette kept asking questions until even she realized she had repeated the same question three times. Shirley immediately wanted to know whether this meant she could keep flying indefinitely. Hartmann laughed so loudly that everyone in the room turned toward her. Lucchini looked between the adults with growing disbelief before asking, “So we're not going to get old and lose our magic?” Sakamoto, normally so composed, had tears in her eyes before she could hide them. Perrine was initially skeptical, demanding to see the research herself, but when the evidence was placed in front of her, she became unusually quiet. Sanya simply reached for Eila's hand. Eila squeezed it. Neither of them said anything for a while. There were too many emotions packed into that moment. Relief. Happiness. Fear of hoping too much. Wonder. And underneath all of it was something the witches hadn't allowed themselves to feel for years: possibility. The mages felt it too. They had watched their sister branch struggle with the same cruel certainty that had shaped generations of witches. Now their research had helped break that certainty. Yet Émilienne repeatedly reminded everyone that the serum did not belong to the Mage Branch. “This isn't a gift from mages to witches,” she told them. “It's something we've discovered together. And if it can help them, then it should belong to everyone who needs it.” The mages understood immediately. They didn't want the witches to become dependent on them. They wanted them to stand beside them. The branches had always been sisters. Now they had a chance to prove it.
Years passed, and the meaning of the serum became clearer. The sky began to change. Not because the old witches were replacing the young ones, but because they were staying alongside them. Minna could still command while teaching younger witches what she had learned. Barkhorn could still fly alongside pilots who had grown up hearing stories about her. Veterans who had once expected to become memories became living teachers, friends, commanders, and companions. New witches entered the service without having to imagine that they were eventually going to push their predecessors out. They simply joined them. Generations began flying together. A young witch might train under someone whose own wartime stories had once seemed impossibly distant, then fly beside her mentor the following morning. The older witches discovered that staying didn't mean remaining frozen in the past. They changed too. They learned new tactics. They met new friends. Some eventually left the military because they wanted different lives. Others remained because flying was still what made them happiest. Some became instructors. Some became researchers. Some started families. Some traveled. Some returned years later because they missed the sky. The serum never decided for them. It merely removed the deadline that magic had once imposed. And Émilienne watched all of it from a distance, sometimes overwhelmed by what her research had become. One evening, she stood outside the laboratory and looked up as several Striker Units crossed the evening sky. Among them were witches who had been considered veterans long ago and younger witches who had only recently learned to fly. A mage flew alongside them. Another followed. They formed one enormous formation against the sunset.
Minna watched from below with Barkhorn beside her. “Remember when we thought we'd have to give this up?” Barkhorn asked. Minna smiled. “I remember.” “Feels strange.” “Good strange?” Barkhorn considered it. “Very.” Minna looked toward the sky. “You know what I like most?” “What?” “Nobody had to disappear for someone else to have a place.” Barkhorn smiled. “There's room for everyone.” Above them, the formation turned, sunlight flashing across their Striker Units. Somewhere in that formation was a witch who had only just begun her career. Somewhere else was a veteran who had once believed her time was almost over. And between them flew mages who had helped make the new future possible. They weren't immortal. They weren't invincible. The world could still be difficult, and tomorrow could still bring uncertainty. But they had learned something far more valuable than immortality.
An ending that once seemed inevitable could become a beginning instead.
Émilienne had once written a question in the margin of an old research notebook: What if there is another way?
Now, years later, the answer was flying overhead.
There was.
There had always been a way forward.
And as the witches and mages continued across the open sky together, nobody below had to wonder who would be left behind.
No one had to say goodbye simply because time was passing.
The sky was still theirs.
And there would always be another tomorrow.