"Arata, run! Get the children out of here, now!"
If there was ever an event that etched itself into the soul of every citizen in the kingdom, it was the night the Blood Moon marked the end of Cycle 968. A night forever burned into the memory of Averford—a night of ruin, of flame, and of despair.
The entire city, once alive with celebration, was swallowed by chaos. Homes and grand buildings crumbled into ash, devoured by strange tongues of blue fire that danced unnaturally across rooftops and stone. The joyous music, the laughter, the vibrant dances that had filled the streets mere hours before were silenced—replaced by screams, by cries of anguish, and the frantic stampede of terrified souls.
That night had not only marked the end of another lunar cycle in Averford's long history—it was to be a night of unity and hope. A grand celebration honoring the peace treaty that neighboring kingdoms had finally agreed upon, a treaty meant to end decades of bloodshed and bitter wars over the control of the Eighth Gate—the last remnant of the ancient Kingdom of Aldelviewreld.
Instead, the people fled in panic, overwhelmed by dread, as a sudden and merciless attack tore through the city. No one knew who had struck. Shadows moved with purpose, guided by unseen hands. Among the chaos, a young man named Arata pushed his way through the crowd, desperation clawing at his chest. He whispered prayers to Throme, the sun god, begging that his mother and siblings were still alive—still untouched by the horror.
Legionnaires sprinted toward the castle, their swords dripping with a thick, violet liquid, their armor slick and gleaming with the same ominous hue. "What are they carrying?" Arata wondered, chilled by the sight.
From the castle ramparts, the mystical cannons unleashed their crimson-hot payloads, thundering down upon the fortress walls and into the city streets beyond. Meanwhile, the outer turrets discharged powerful bolts of lightning, turning grotesque, unrecognizable creatures into scorched silhouettes—mere smoke and ash lost in the inferno and the shadows of a dying night.
Arata had made it home—but something was terribly wrong.
The house was engulfed in flames, the wooden beams crackling under the weight of the inferno. His siblings were nowhere to be seen. A wave of helplessness and despair crashed over him, his face contorting with the raw expressions of fear and horror.
"Layla! Asher! Mom!" he cried out, his voice trembling with panic as he called their names into the chaos.
Then—a voice, sharp and desperate, pulled him back.
"Arata! Watch out!" his mother screamed from behind.
He spun around.
And there it was.
A massive Scarlet lunged at him from the burning wreckage—its gaping maw wide enough to swallow him whole, eyes gleaming with mindless hunger. Its howl drowned the crackle of fire as it descended upon him.
―End of the memory―
Slowly, Arata began to stir. His body was drenched in sweat, his limbs heavy and numb. He blinked, realizing with a jolt that he was dangling—suspended on the edge of a vast abyss.
A single root jutted from the labyrinth wall, barely holding his weight.
He hadn't fallen into the void by some miracle.
"Whoa!" he shouted, heart slamming against his chest as the reality of his situation hit him like a hammer.
But the sudden jerk of his body caused the root to shift—tear—it began to come loose from the stone.
"What the hell happened?" he muttered, panic rising.
As the tendril of safety strained under his grip, the looming question echoed in his mind:
"How am I supposed to get out of this?"
As he tried to move, the root beneath him began to tear away even further, forcing Arata into near-complete stillness. He took a moment to assess his surroundings—massive stone walls loomed around him, and a thick, swirling mist veiled the bottomless chasm below. One wrong move, and he would vanish into the darkness forever.
"Damn it, Alistar… I had to listen to you tonight of all nights!" Arata muttered under his breath, scolding himself bitterly. But the abyss answered him only with the mocking echo of his own voice.
Slowly, he reached for his belt. His blue cloak fluttered softly behind him, caught in the gentle winds that snaked through the labyrinth's winding paths, all drawn toward the center of the vast pit.
With great care, he retrieved a grapple hook, its line thin yet remarkably strong—woven from the silk of the giant spider that dwelled in the southern forest.
"Knew you'd be useful one day... Time to earn your keep," he whispered with a faint smirk, speaking to the tool as if it could understand him.
He began to spin the hook with cautious precision, scanning the walls for any ledge or outcropping sturdy enough to catch. Finally, he spotted a narrow opening and let the hook fly—only to miss. The movement was enough to dislodge the root even more, sending a jolt of terror through him.
Arata froze.
He knew it now—there would be no third attempt.
"Come on, Arata… This can't be how it ends!" he shouted through gritted teeth.
With renewed focus, he hurled the hook a second time. The root snapped just as he released it, and his body plummeted downward.
But fate, it seemed, hadn't turned on him completely.
The hook caught.
The rope went taut, and Arata slammed into the wall of the chasm with bone-rattling force. A cry of pain burst from his lungs, echoing through the depths like a ghost's wail.
"Damn it! I should be asleep in my warm bed right now, not dangling off the side of some cursed abyss!" he roared, clinging to the rope with every ounce of strength he had left.
For now, it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Elsewhere in the labyrinth, Kiett pressed on through the shifting corridors, calling out Claire's name with a desperate hope that his voice might summon some reassuring reply. But silence answered him—vast and suffocating, broken only by the distant whistle of the wind and the fading echo of his own cries.
His hand rested firmly on the hilt of his sword, every muscle tensed and ready. The mist of his breath shimmered in the cold air, catching the pale reflections of the frozen walls around him. The ground beneath his boots, once solid and firm, had begun to change—softening into thick, foul-smelling mud that clung to him with every step.
Kiett's pulse quickened. The unease crawling through his thoughts was growing harder to ignore.
"This was supposed to be a simple mission. We were only meant to find a sword…" he muttered silently, doubt gnawing at the edges of his resolve.
Then—something shifted in his mind. A memory surfaced, sharp and uninvited, sparking a sudden flicker of purpose.
"Of course… This place is perfect for it," he realized.
Reaching into the small pouch fastened to his belt, he pulled out the Black Book—the ancient tome he had retrieved from beneath the shelf in Averford's grand library. Its leather binding pulsed faintly, as if alive, and two of the seals across its surface had already been broken. Only one remained—stubborn, unmoving, sealed with an ominous resistance.
"I'll need to pour in far more mana this time," he calculated, eyes narrowing. "And I'll ready God's Hand, just in case the explosion is stronger than the last." He thought.
He placed the book gently on the ground and set both hands atop its worn cover. Closing his eyes, he drew in a long, steady breath, sinking deep into focus—past the cold in his bones, past the distant howls of the wind, into the core of his own essence.
Then, it began.
A soft, white light blossomed from his palms, delicate at first, like morning frost kissed by dawn. It pulsed and shimmered, slowly weaving its way across the surface of the book until it touched the third seal. The sigil, dormant and unyielding until now, began to stir—its edges flickering with pale brilliance as the light embraced it.
Kiett's mind drifted back to the phrase—the one he had spoken to awaken the previous two seals. It echoed through his memory, clear and commanding. Without hesitation, he parted his lips and began to recite it once more.
"Hospes sum qui ad ianuam tuam pulsavit, non aurum neque argentum quaero, sed solum viam quae me adducat ad locum ubi auroram conveniam: revelatio."
Just after reciting the phrase, the soft white light radiating from his body caused the seal to shift—its hue turning a deep, ominous red in response to his aura. Kiett watched it carefully, his breath held tight in his chest. He knew what came next.
"Alright… now comes the hard part!" he muttered to himself, bracing.
He hunched slightly, drawing in more mana from within, forcing the flow to surge toward the seal. As he did, violent gales burst forth from the Black Book, flooding that corridor of the labyrinth with howling winds and flickering shadows. Kiett could feel it—the moment of release was near.
He raised his hand, preparing to cast God's Hand—but the seal shattered too fast.
He had no time to react.
A colossal explosion erupted from the book, a blinding surge of raw energy exploding outward. The walls of the labyrinth trembled under the force of the unleashed seal. The stone ramparts groaned and cracked, and the tempest intensified into a roaring storm.
Alistar and Elle, stationed atop the outer battlements, were nearly swept over by the quake and the brutal gusts. Claire was forced to the ground, shielding her head as debris flew past. Montecristo and the girls were caught in the blast, thrown back by the sheer force of it.
Meanwhile, Arata, who had just climbed his way up the cliffside, was violently hurled backward by the shockwave—sent tumbling once more into the abyss. Only the rope, still anchored to the ledge, saved him. It snapped taut, yanking him mid-fall, slamming his body once again against the cold stone wall.
"Damn it! What does this place have against me?!" Arata shouted.
The third seal of the Black Book burst open, unleashing a vast torrent of violet liquid that drenched the entire chamber. The earth beneath their feet boiled, now mingled with that thick, otherworldly substance. Kiett lay slumped against the cold stone wall of the labyrinth, unconscious—he had taken the full brunt of the explosion, unable to summon God's Hand in time to shield himself. From head to toe, he was soaked in the strange fluid, though neither his skin nor clothes burned upon contact.
Gradually, Kiett's eyelids fluttered open. His vision blurred, he took in the scene—scarlet vapor rose from the ground, curling skyward like tendrils of smoke reaching for the heavens. He glanced down at his hands, now slick with the viscous red liquid. Then, as if drawn by some sinister will, the substance began to seep into his skin, triggering a searing pain that pierced him to the marrow.
He screamed, his cries echoing through the endless corridors of the maze, writhing as his body involuntarily drank in the essence—like a parched soul tasting fire. "What the hell is happening to me? What is this—am I going to die?" he thought, drowning in the throes of agony.
He could feel his flesh burning, his eyes melting in their sockets, even hallucinating that his hair was falling out, turning to ash and vanishing into nothingness. In his mind, the violet liquid devoured his body like acid, stripping him down to bare bone. Kiett screamed, his voice raw and unending, until—slowly—the pain began to ebb, the visions faded, dissolving into the silence. His breath came in ragged gasps, his skin drenched in sweat. His clothes, strangely, remained untouched. It made him wonder if everything he had seen and felt was merely a hallucination, a cruel trick of the mind caused by the brutal impact against the labyrinth wall.
And yet, the red liquid still lingered around him.
As he rose to his feet, he felt something pulsing within him—an unnatural surge of energy coursed through his veins, intoxicating and overwhelming in its intensity. He looked down at his hands, clenching them into fists, bending his joints, testing his body for any lingering pain or spasms after unlocking the seal in such a violent manner.
He searched through the pool of liquid until he found the book, lying open and waiting at the center. Wading through the crimson mire, he retrieved it and flipped back to the very first page, his eyes scanning the introduction.
"The path of knowledge is one woven with subtle threads, deepening with each step forward. But now is your moment to choose. This book was written by Vindelvan and Vastagus. They offer you a message: How much will ever be enough for you to say you have read enough? How much power do you truly need to keep your loved ones safe from the breath of death?"
After reading that foreboding introduction, a flicker of fear stirred within Kiett. He tried to turn the page—he knew exactly how to do it, knew how to lift the delicate sheet and advance to the next chapter. And yet, his hand refused to move. It was as though some invisible force held him still, paralyzing him at the threshold of deeper knowledge.
Far above, atop the labyrinth walls, Alistar and Elle were regaining their balance after a sudden gust of wind nearly knocked them from the heights.
"Are you alright, Elle?" Alistar asked, genuine concern etched into his voice as he studied her for signs of injury.
"What's going on with you tonight?" Elle replied with a gentle smile, brushing dust from her shoulder. "You seem more worried about me than usual."
"Don't say that. I always worry about you!" Alistar said warmly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering there for a moment.
Elle turned her gaze toward the heart of the maze, eyes narrowing at the immense column of crimson smoke rising from one of its far corners.
"Alistar, look at that!" she called out, pointing urgently.
Alistar's expression hardened the moment he laid eyes on the phenomenon. Without hesitation, he began searching for a way down, leaping across the walls with urgency in his step.
Elsewhere, Montecristo, Aria, and Grislett were just beginning to stir—still dazed, ears ringing with the echo of the explosive shockwave that had shaken the earth beneath their feet.
"Montecristo, what just happened?" Aria asked, her voice edged with tension.
"I don't know," the general replied, his gaze fixed in the direction of the explosion, "but whatever it was—it mattered."
"Should we go look for the source?" Aria pressed.
"We should get out of this place instead," Grislett interjected, her tone resolute.
Aria nodded sharply in agreement, instinctively siding with Grislett's caution.
Meanwhile, in another part of the labyrinth, Claire was slowly getting to her feet, shaking her head to clear the lingering echo of the blast still reverberating through her senses.
"Damn it... What was all that? Where is everyone?" she wondered, her thoughts muddled and fragmented.
Then—her blood froze.
Behind her, a low, guttural growl rippled through the air. It was the sound of a predator on the hunt. Claire's breath caught in her throat. Every part of her screamed to run, but something deeper forced her to turn—slowly.
What she saw made her soul lurch in horror.
Towering before her stood a Scarlet—one of the dreaded dragons—but this one was unlike any she had seen. It was easily twice the size of those they had fought during the hunting trials. Jagged, blade-like protrusions jutted from its back and limbs like a grotesque mountain of sharpened stone, and its gaping jaws dripped with saliva as its eyes locked onto her trembling form.
Claire slowly drew the sword that Montecristo had gifted her, its blade gleaming with a radiant violet light.
"Himmlischer Brustpanzer!" she invoked.
In an instant, her body was enveloped in a shimmering armor of mystic energy, the ethereal plating forming around her like a celestial shield. She braced herself, heart pounding, ready to fight for her life.
Margott and Rivett awoke, aching and disoriented. Young Blackwell scanned her surroundings in all directions, searching for any sign of what had just occurred.
"What in the world was all that?" she wondered, still dazed.
A low groan of pain suddenly drew her attention. She turned to her left—and there lay Rivett, pinned beneath a massive tree trunk, her right leg bleeding profusely.
"Don't move, miss!" Margott cried out, rushing to her side. Without hesitation, the girl gripped the enormous trunk with both hands and tried to lift it.
"What are you doing, child? You'll hurt yourself!" Rivett protested, but her words faltered as she watched in disbelief. Before her eyes, Margott's slender frame hoisted the trunk—easily weighing over two hundred kilos—off the ground with stunning ease.
"How in the world are you...?" Rivett stammered.
"You could do it too," Margott replied calmly, "if you focused your vital links and sent your mana to every muscle."
Without waiting for a reply, she swiftly placed her hand over Rivett's wounded leg. The bleeding stopped instantly, and with a soft, inaudible incantation, the wound began to close, leaving Rivett speechless.
— Elsewhere in the Labyrinth —
"Claire, always remember—humans are fragile before the forces of nature. And yet, we are the perfect weapon."
Claire stood her ground as the massive Scarlet advanced on her, each step rumbling through the earth. Her dazzling original spell, Himmlischer Brustpanzer, shimmered across her body like divine armor. She held her violet-bladed sword before her, hands trembling, terror gripping her heart—yet she refused to lower the blade.
"Damn it! What class is this thing supposed to be?" Claire muttered to herself, eyes wide with dread. The Scarlet's enormous claws sank deep into the muddy earth, anchoring it with terrifying stability. Claire knew it had the advantage in grip on that treacherous terrain.
"Roter Dolch!" she chanted.
At once, the violet glow of her blade shifted into a deep, crimson red. The Scarlet's eyes flared in response to the change, and it released a thunderous roar aimed straight at her. The force of the scream whipped her hair wildly about her face, and the foul stench of its breath made her features twist in disgust.
"All right… I can win this!" she told herself through gritted teeth.
The dragon lunged—its jaws gaping wide, ready to swallow her whole. At the very last second, Claire launched herself upward, dodging the beast's bite by a hair's breadth. Mid-air, she slashed three times with Roter Dolch, each strike aimed at the creature's neck. The blade connected, but the dragon's skin was like stone—her attacks barely managed to carve shallow scratches.
"What the hell? Roter Dolch should've severed its head! Is this one tougher than the others?" Claire thought, still airborne.
The Scarlet whirled around with unnatural speed. Its massive tail whipped forward like a battering ram, catching Claire mid-flight and slamming her violently into the labyrinth wall. The impact sent a deep tremor through the stone.
Her body endured the brutal strike, protected by Himmlischer Brustpanzer—but the armor shattered under the force, splintering into fragments of light.
"No… no way!" Claire gasped, horrified.
Her sword had fractured too, it lay broken in her hand, as if it had absorbed part of the beast's colossal blow.
Now Claire stood weaponless—no blade to counter, no shield but her will. Once again, she summoned Himmlischer Brustpanzer, her breath sharp and focused. She knew this fight was far from over.
Without hesitation, she rose to her feet—but the Scarlet was faster. With a deafening crash, the beast smashed through the wall, widening the jagged hole with terrifying ease. Before she could react, one of its massive claws slammed into her chestplate, shattering her armor a second time in a storm of violet light and fractured force.
"I can't fight it like this—I have to run," Claire gasped, and without wasting a heartbeat, she turned and sprinted with all her strength, putting as much distance between herself and the monster as she could.
The Scarlet gave chase, a thunderous shadow in pursuit. Claire's speed was formidable—every recruit training to become a Legionnaire of the Kingdom of Averford was drilled from a young age in the art of channeling their vital links, empowering their bodies beyond the limits of ordinary flesh. Her movements were fluid, her breath rhythmic, her body honed for survival.
And yet, even with her advantage in agility, the Scarlet was relentless. Its size worked against it, but the narrow trenches and chaotic turns of the labyrinth began to sap Claire's momentum. With every sharp corner and uneven surface, her speed diminished—and the sound of claws scraping stone crept ever closer behind her.
"Damn it—it's going to catch me!" Claire thought, her instincts screaming as she sensed the next strike. Without slowing her pace, she summoned her original spell once more.
"Himmlischer Brustpanzer—Phase Two: Obsidian!" she cried, her voice cutting through the chaos.
As she ran, a second armor began to manifest—this one darker, forged in shadow and steel. Jagged edges lined her silhouette, lethal spikes sprouted from her elbows, and her hands were encased in clawed gauntlets, each talon gleaming like forged obsidian, sharp enough to shred bone.
But it wasn't enough.
The Scarlet caught up.
Its monstrous jaws clamped around Claire, lifting her from the ground in a brutal bite. She screamed—not in pain, but in terror—as the beast's fangs crunched down with all their might, crushing pressure reverberating through her body. She could feel something giving way… until, suddenly, the Scarlet released her with a guttural snarl and spat her out.
Claire slammed into the ground, hard—but rose in an instant, battered but alive. She looked up to see the creature's maw, now dripping with blood and shards of ivory.
Then, realization dawned.
It wasn't my armor that cracked… it was its teeth.
The Scarlet's fangs had shattered upon the hardness of her obsidian armor, splintering with every bite it had dared to take.
"Well then… Phase Two is a hell of an upgrade. Good thing I read that stupid book with Kiett. Speaking of which—where is he?" she thought, catching her breath.
And then—a roar behind her.
Spinning around, Claire's heart sank. Two more Scarlets had emerged from the smoke and stone, identical to the one she had just fought off. The three beasts now surrounded her, eyes glowing with primal hunger.
"Disgusting bastards…" Claire muttered under her breath, fists tightening as the claws on her gauntlets gleamed under the flickering light.
―Arata Gosen―
For the second time, Arata had managed to escape the abyss. The shockwave caused by the explosion during the opening of the third seal of the Black Book hadn't been particularly kind to him—it had tossed him like a leaf in a storm.
"Damn it… my arms are killing me," he muttered to himself, collapsing into a seated position, his back resting against a wall of tangled vegetation—roots, trees, and stone woven together like the bones of the labyrinth itself.
His eyes trailed upward, studying the towering height of the maze walls. He considered scaling them with his grappling hook.
"I'm exhausted… but since when has that ever stopped me? It never has. Will you really let it stop you now?" he challenged himself silently.
His thoughts began to blur, drifting from the moment—until a thunderous noise snapped him back to reality. Instinct took over.
In one swift motion, he leapt to his feet, hands already resting on the hilts of the twin blades sheathed across his back, hidden beneath his cloak—now whipping wildly in the rising wind.
And there they stood.
Three Scarlets. Each larger than any he had faced just over a week ago. Towering beasts, bristling with jagged scales and malice.
"Shit."
Arata drew his blades—Moonlight Edges—razor-sharp swords that gleamed under the silver gaze of the full moon. But above, a massive black cloud began to swallow the sky, rolling in like a tidal wave of shadow.
Rain fell over Threnafell in thick, icy sheets.
Yet still, his swords glowed.
Even as the world was drowned in darkness, the ethereal shimmer of his blades remained—a defiant light in the gloom.
And across the clearing, the eyes of the Scarlets burned with furious radiance. They saw Arata clearly.
And he saw them.
"Original spell: Klinge des Jägers," Arata whispered.
In response, one of his blades shimmered, shifting from moonlit white to a deep, glowing red.
The Scarlets reacted instantly—charging at him like enraged beasts. Arata didn't flinch. Instead, he launched himself backward, hurling into the void beyond the ledge. The dragons followed with a thunderous roar.
But Arata was still tethered—his rope securely fastened to his waist, the grappling hook embedded in the stone above. The tension in the line snapped his body sideways in midair, redirecting his momentum with precision.
In a blur of movement, he spun along his own axis. Arms outstretched, blades ready—he became a crimson whirlwind. With a single sweeping motion, both swords carved through the necks of two of the Scarlets, decapitating them mid-fall in a deadly arc of grace and fury.
The third Scarlet spread its wings just before impact, catching the wind and surging back toward him. It slammed into Arata with the full force of its weight, its snout striking his body and dragging him violently. The hook tore free from the rock, the rope unraveling in an instant.
But Arata reacted on instinct.
Using the dragon's snout as a springboard, he launched upward—driving both blades into the beast's neck as he soared with it through the rain. The Scarlet howled in agony, its cry echoing through the storm-washed sky.
"Festmahl des Jägers!" Arata cried.
A vortex of slashes erupted around the beast, slicing it apart midair in a brutal whirlwind of steel and blood. Shredded and broken, the creature disintegrated into the rain-soaked night.
Arata landed hard on a narrow path of the labyrinth, one knee to the ground, his breath heavy. Rain poured over him, washing away the blood that coated his body—yet none of it could wash away the fire in his eyes.
—Arata's Flashback—
"Arata! Behind you!"
The great Scarlet burst forth from Arata's home, wreathed in flames, its jaws wide and ready to consume the young recruit who had barely begun his path toward the Legion. Just as the beast lunged, a cannon atop one of the castle towers fired with ruthless precision. The projectile struck the dragon squarely on the head, saving Arata from being devoured—but the resulting shockwave hurled him through the air.
The dragon had been close—too close.
Debris rained down as the creature collapsed. Dazed and bruised by the fragments that had landed on him, Arata pushed himself to his feet. Blood trickled down the side of his face, but he ignored it, his only thought focused on finding his mother and younger siblings.
Flames roared all around him. Screams tore through the air as people fled in every direction, while the guttural cries of the Scarlets clashed with the thunder of cannons and turret fire. Chaos reigned.
Arata stumbled forward a few steps—then froze.
Lying beneath a massive section of collapsed wall was the lifeless body of his mother, crushed and still. Her eyes stared into nothingness, and her hand, outstretched, no longer reached for him.
Time stood still.
The noise faded into a dull, suffocating silence. All that remained was the firelight.
With all his strength, Arata tried to lift the massive slab of stone—but it was far too heavy for him alone.
"Arata… I'm scared!"
The voice came from beneath a shattered rooftop nearby. He turned and saw his sister, Layla, clutching their youngest brother, Asher, both trembling with fear and desperation. Tears shimmered in Layla's wide, terrified eyes. Asher had taken a blow to the head—his forehead was bleeding.
"It's okay, Layla. I'm here now!" Arata called back, forcing his voice to stay calm, to be the anchor they needed.
Just then, a girl in an apprentice uniform came sprinting toward him—another Legion hopeful like Arata.
"Arata! We have to go! Arthur and the General are in trouble—the castle is under siege, and Lyle-Hude… he's alive. We have to help them!" she shouted.
"Rivett… please, help me!" Arata pleaded, his voice cracking under the weight of grief. He fought back the tears swelling in his throat, knowing his siblings couldn't afford to see him break.
Rivett rushed to his side—but stopped abruptly. Her hands covered her mouth, stifling a gasp as her eyes landed on the lifeless body of Arata's mother.
"Arata…" she whispered, shaken.
Then, steeling herself, she spoke with urgency. "Take Layla and Asher. Get them to the northwest quarter. We'll handle this."
Rivett looked into Arata's face—and what she saw there chilled her more than the chaos around them. Behind his grief burned something fierce and unrelenting: rage… and the unmistakable birth of vengeance.
She hesitated only for a second—then scooped the children into her arms and ran.
Layla screamed, begging Arata to come with them.
"I'll see you soon, Layla," he said softly. "Take care of Asher for now… I'll take care of Mom."
He whispered the words under his breath, eyes fixed on their small figures as they vanished into the smoke and ash, swallowed by the flames of a dying home.
"From that day on, I swore vengeance for my mother. I swore I'd wipe the Scarlets from this world. From that day, I vowed that Lyle-Hude would fall—by the edge of my blades."
—End of Flashback—
"Why do I have the feeling this isn't going to end well?" Arata wondered, just as his instincts kicked in.
He launched himself into the air with a powerful leap, evading two Scarlets that burst through the walls on either side of the path, their jaws snapping shut in an attempt to devour him mid-flight. Their fangs collided in a vicious clash of scale and fang.
But it wasn't over.
Two more Scarlets appeared in the sky above—waiting, as if they had anticipated the hunter's every move.
"Festmahl des Jägers!" Arata roared.
He swung one of his blades in a wide arc behind him, summoning a powerful gust of wind that hurled him straight toward one of the dragons. In a single, fluid motion, he brought down his other sword—severing the creature's head cleanly. He landed atop its collapsing body, standing tall over the fallen beast.
"Come get me, you miserable bastards!" he shouted into the storm.
The three remaining Scarlets lunged at him with primal fury. Arata moved in a blur, propelling himself forward with a powerful leap, evading their claws by mere inches.
"Try these little treats!" he called out.
From his belt, he snatched six small daggers and hurled them with precision—each one embedding itself deep into the necks of the charging dragons.
"Enriched with negative energy... and all it takes is a snap of my fingers," he murmured with a smirk.
He snapped the fingers of his right hand.
The daggers shimmered with a brilliant white light—soft and cold like moonlight piercing through storm clouds. And then, in an instant, a deafening explosion shattered the night.
The blast engulfed the Scarlets, obliterating them in a surge of radiant force, and sent shockwaves powerful enough to tear down sections of the labyrinth walls.
—Claire Sigrid—
Claire kept her distance from the Scarlets. Though there was no way out, she knew she had to fight. Somehow, she had to stand her ground. But without a sword, her only option was to rely on the overwhelming strength granted to her by the second phase of Himmlischer Brustpanzer.
One of the Scarlets lunged at her.
Claire dodged with precise timing, maneuvering onto the beast's back in a single, fluid motion. She delivered a crushing blow with her armored fist.
She felt the dragon's hardened scales and bones crack beneath the sheer force of her strike—as if its monstrous body were made of brittle wood.
"Kiett… I wish you could see what your book has taught me to do now," she thought, her heart pounding.
With the spike on her left elbow, she drove a decisive blow into the creature's forehead, piercing straight through its skull and ending it once and for all.
Without hesitation, she launched herself at the remaining enemies, weaving between their claws and scorching breaths. Her movements grew sharper, more fluid—she was learning to master this new phase of her armor with every heartbeat.
Then came the tail.
One of the Scarlets struck her with a brutal swing of its tail, sending her hurtling through two labyrinth walls with a deafening crash. The impact left the ground trembling.
Claire tumbled through the debris, landing hard—but before she could rise, a metallic sound rang out beside her.
She turned her head.
Her eyes widened. Her breath caught in her throat.
There, half-buried in shattered stone, gleamed the blade—her mother's sword.
A rush of emotion flooded her features.
Hope. Fire. Resolve.
Her weapon had returned to her hand.
"There you are—just in time!" Claire exclaimed as she rose to her feet and reached for the blade.
It was beautiful—elegant and deadly—but still stained with the blood of Scarlets, remnants of the massacre she had survived just over a week ago. Those dragons had been lesser than the ones she now faced, and yet that battle had already cost her dearly.
She had no time to dwell.
One of the Scarlets burst through the shattered wall and lunged, sinking its jaws into her left arm. The beast's bite crushed through her armor and snapped the bone beneath it.
Claire's scream tore through the labyrinth, echoing across the stone walls like a banshee's wail. The Scarlet thrashed her up and down, as if she were nothing more than a rag doll—her broken arm now a twisted chain binding her to the creature's maw.
Then came the fire.
Blue flames surged from the dragon's throat as it slammed her into a nearby wall. Her armor absorbed the brunt of the flames, shielding her from incineration—but not from the force. Claire's body hit the stone with devastating impact.
She still clutched the sword in her right hand.
But the pain… it was too great.
She couldn't summon Roter Dolch.
The Scarlet lunged again, its maw opening wide to finish her in a single bite.
Claire cried out, her voice choked with desperation, and shut her eyes—ready for the end.
But it never came.
Silence.
When she opened her eyes, what she saw left her breathless.
An enormous golem stood before her—its body a fusion of ancient wood and stone, with towering antlers curling from its head like the crown of a forest god. In its grasp was the Scarlet, held aloft like a helpless puppet, writhing in futility against the colossus's unyielding strength.
The dragon thrashed wildly, sinking its fangs into the golem's massive wooden hands in a desperate attempt to break free. Unmoved, the golem seized the beast by its head and tail—then pulled with crushing force.
With a sickening crack, the Scarlet was torn in two, its body ripped apart like parchment in a storm.
The second dragon leapt forward, aiming for the golem's back.
"Watch out!" Claire shouted.
But before the creature could strike, it was cleaved cleanly in half by the sweeping arc of a scythe. The flash of steel was blinding—swift and final.
Claire stared in disbelief, the echo of the kill still hanging in the air. Her broken arm trembled with pain as she struggled to lift her gaze, trying to see the one who had just saved her life.
The golem—towering over seven meters tall—knelt silently behind the figure who approached her. As he drew near, Claire's eyes locked onto his.
Emerald green. Piercing. Alive with something ancient and unknowable.
His hair was black as midnight, and though he looked no older than she was, there was something in his presence—his aura—that made time itself seem to bend around him.
He raised the blade of his scythe toward her, not threateningly, but with measured precision.
"Tell me," he said, voice calm and deep.
"Are you a disciple of the Cult of the Great Scarlet Dragon?"
TO BE CONTINUED…