The first spear fell—
SHRRK!
A bandit didn't even scream; his chest simply vanished, erased from existence as the void-ice cut through flesh, bone, and soul alike. Panic erupted instantly.
"W-what is that?! MAGIC?! RUN!"
But there was nowhere to run.
The black rain fell in torrents, each spear crashing down like a judgment from the heavens.
TCHK! SHKKR! BOOOOM!
Tents ripped apart, the spit-fire was extinguished in a single strike, and men were reduced to nothing more than fragments before being swallowed by the void. Every spear that touched earth warped it, the ground turning to pitch-black glass that steamed with unnatural frost.
"AAAAHHHHH!" one screamed, his arm gone in a blink before another spear impaled him, pinning his body into the dirt.
Elira shielded herself with trembling hands as her grimoire spun frantically, wind magic forming a protective barrier over her. Even then, she felt the crushing pressure of the spell. Her knees shook.
"This… this isn't magic. It's… it's something else…" she whispered, eyes wide with terror and awe.
Roland stood grim, sword half-raised, but even he dared not move forward. The cocky grin was gone, replaced by tight-lipped silence. "Kid… that's not something you pull out on bandits."
But Dave? Dave stood calm in the downpour of destruction, his silver-black grimoire glowing faintly before him. He didn't flinch, didn't strain—his eyes were as steady as if he were watching rain on a quiet day.
Within seconds, the screams faded. The bandit camp was gone—nothing left but smoldering black earth and fractured remains.
All except one.
The leader gasped under a collapsed tent frame, his body half-burned, half-frozen by the residual void-ice. His eyes bulged as he stared at Dave, terror drowning out his pain.
"Y-you… you're a demon—"
His words cut off as Dave's grimoire snapped shut with a sharp CLAP.
The storm ceased. Silence returned to the forest, broken only by the faint hiss of void steam rising from the ground.
Dave slid his hands back into his pockets, calm as ever. "Target's alive," he said flatly, glancing at Roland. "Tie him up. The rest are irrelevant."
Elira lowered her barrier slowly, her hands trembling. She couldn't stop staring at him—at that impossible four-leaf grimoire, at the devastation he'd wrought without a flicker of emotion.
Roland exhaled through his nose, smiling faintly though his eyes were sharp with new weight. "…Restraint, huh? Remind me never to piss you off, rookie."
Dave didn't answer. He simply turned and started walking back toward the horses.
For him, it truly had been just a warm-up.
The ride back was tense, though not because of the bandits. Their prisoner moaned faintly, trussed up like a sack on the back of Roland's horse, but no one paid him much attention. The true weight lay in the silence between the three of them.
The road stretched out in pale moonlight, wheels of the cart crunching over gravel, the forest pressing in on both sides.
Elira kept glancing at Dave. Her lips parted more than once, but the words refused to leave her tongue. Finally, she couldn't hold it anymore.
"…What was that back there?" she asked, her voice soft but unsteady. "That wasn't just magic. That wasn't anything I've ever seen. It was—" she shuddered, "—something that shouldn't exist."
Roland chuckled low, though there was no humor in it. "She's right. I've seen mages burn cities to ash, seen magic knights tear through armies… but that wasn't just power. That was controlled annihilation." His eyes flicked at Dave. "You planning on explaining, kid?"
Dave didn't look back. He sat loosely in his saddle, one hand resting in his pocket, his gaze fixed forward. "No."
The blunt answer hung heavy.
Elira bit her lip. "You… you don't even strain when you cast. Not once. Even high-ranked knights sweat when they pour out spells like that. How can you just… stand there? Like it's nothing?"
This time, Dave turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Because it is nothing. For me."
Elira frowned, confused. Roland narrowed his eyes.
Dave sighed, like he was debating whether speaking was worth the effort. Then he added, flatly:
"…You want to know why? It's simple. From the time I was six, me and the others weren't like normal children. We pushed ourselves—we fought, trained, challenged each other. Not because someone forced us to… but because we wanted to."
The words carried weight, though different than expected.
Roland blinked, then let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "…At six? Damn. When I was six, the biggest fight I had was with the old bathkeeper after sneaking into the women's side. Nearly got drowned in soapy water for that stunt."
Elira gave a faint, almost guilty smile, her hands tightening around the reins. "…When I was six, I was sweeping the steps of my father's workshop. Watching dust dance in the light, dreaming about how I'd someday cast real spells. That was my world."
Her smile faded, replaced with quiet awe. "And you… you were already fighting?"
Dave's eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "We weren't killing anyone, not then. But sparring, testing limits, drawing blood now and then… yeah. That was our play. By the time others were dreaming, we were already learning what it meant to clash. By the time others were practicing, we were already used to standing up after being knocked down."
The night air grew heavier, silence filling in the gaps.
Roland muttered low, more to himself than to Dave. "…Explains why you're so steady. Most of us only grew into battle later. You… you grew up with it."
Elira bit her lip, her chest tightening. For the first time since she'd met Dave, she understood a little of the gulf between them.
The horses clopped on, steady and unbothered.
And though nothing more was said, the difference between what they had been at six—and what Dave and his companions had chosen to be—stretched clear as a chasm.
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