Withered Scabbard

Lvl: 60
Trust: 100 (10,070 Points)
Availability: na
Equip Trait
Healing increased by 15% when healing a ground unit
Equip Attribute Bonuses
Stat Value
atk 35
attack_speed 5
Unlock Information
During battle, have Shining use Creed Field a total of 6 times (excluding Support Units)
Clear Main Theme 5-8 with a 3-star rating; The only Medic Operator that can be deployed is your own Shining


Module Description

It was an eerily still night, all light in the mansion extinguished, only moonlight spilling through the window into the room.
In the dim and the dark, a precocious daughter was led to her mother's delivery bed.
Still so young, yet her strict education had already begun, and a sword and scabbard conferred upon her. The father's daughter naturally inherits the ways in which he surpasses others, bloodlines ever able to record power and wisdom. So was the theory to which the Confessarii subscribed.
The daughter watched her mother intently. The white-haired Sarkaz woman shut her eyes and laid down upon her back. Her body rested in calm and grace, shadow cast upon the wall as if the very contours of love for her child.
Below her, an infant's silhouette was drawn out by the slanted moonlight, magnified, and finally thrown upon the wall as if some sort of monster. This newborn life was yet frail and impotent, but did not impulsively wail as the normal suckling would, instead silently opening its eyes that could not yet see. Then clouds masked the moonlight, and the mother's arms slid down past the bed.
Together with the light, the monster's silhouette did vanish from the wall.
Now the daughter gazed, at this succession of life.
It was not her first time witnessing a life pass before her eyes. Her father had departed this coil not long prior, and now, another demise and nascence was playing out. The vanishing and parting, the swelling and birthing of life, every particular presented before the daughter, yet her Arts... the Arts of the Confessarii, would not stir at this, would not collect at her fingertips as expected.
The daughter was struck by confusion.
'Life' was... the concept her father made occasional mention of, the subtle weapon held by the Confessarii, and the thing she was ever urged to gain comprehension of. But her father's death was an airy gossamer in her memories, of little thickness or weight; her mother's passing was all too abrupt, as if someone had with naked hands taken all vitality from her. Now, here in this dead of night, her brother had silently arrived.
Just what was life?
Just what was it she was feeling?
Did the lives of those that populated the household—her mother and father that possessed the same silvery hair, herself who resembled her mother so, and this newborn brother who had yet to cry—did their lives resemble each other in any way?
'Our lives, in the end, will become one with a higher form.' Such did the father tell the daughter before drawing his last breath.
Instinctively, she had sensed it was no majestic metaphor.
Life flowed in the veins of the family of the purest bloodline, and something returned to her side once again in this moment... Or perhaps, it had never left.