Mercedes Caulis – 50th Stratum:
Wham!
Elfaria's eyes fluttered open to the sound of a fist slamming against the round table.
The source?
One Zeo Thorzeus Reinbolt.
Bzzt.
Lightning crackled around him.
Veins bulged and throbbed across his shoulders, pulsing beneath his darkened skin.
His usual easygoing demeanor had vanished. He rose from his seat and strode toward the balcony.
The Thunder Faction's adjutant, Gil—a blond man of decent height in knightly armor with an overflowing cape—twisted in surprise as his leader brushed past him.
"Great Mage Zeo?!"
No response. The Wand of Thunder continued his march.
From the table, the Wand of Fire spoke next, his crescent-moon smile never fading.
"Where do you think you're off to, Zeo?"
This time, Zeo stopped—back still turned to them—as he cracked his neck. He finally answered.
"To battle. Where else?"
Then he turned to face them all—the other adjutants, his fellow Vander.
He pointed at the large magical orb suspended over the table, runes circling it as it broadcast the chaos below in Urbus Rigarden.
He sneered.
"Can't you hear them wailing?! They're about to get butchered like pigs down there! Useless, all of 'em!"
He spread his arms wide, voice rising, fangs flashing as real anger leaked through.
"But... look at us. Sittin' pretty up here and watching 'em die! Are we the Magia Vander, or aren't we?!"
Cariott's smile didn't so much as waver as he raised a hand, preparing to answer his colleague.
He spoke with a calm, almost weary tone—like a teacher reeducating a child who just refused to understand.
"You heard Lord Aaron. If the Magia Vander fall, so does the barrier."
"And should that come to pass, the Celestial World will invade and reduce our world to cinders."
Cariott Incindia Wiseman chuckled softly, leaning back just slightly on his throne as he finished the point.
"As things stand, even we are no match for the Devander. At the very least, we must wait until our magic replenishes."
Then, with a tilt of his head, he gestured toward Zeo's empty seat.
"You should know by now what being a Magia Vander entails. I've certainly told you often enough… now, kindly return to your seat—"
"Fine, then I don't want it."
Zeo cut him off sharply, wearing a heavy, mildly disgusted frown.
"What good's a fancy title if it means being a coward—"
Thunk!
Cariott flicked his wrist, embedding a flaming arrow into the floor beneath Zeo's feet, halting him mid-step.
Though Incindia Barham still wore a smile, his voice carried no warmth now.
"I said return to your seat."
"If you refuse, I'll have no choice but to keep you here by force."
"Hah?!"
Zeo snorted, baring his fangs in a crooked grin. Lightning sparked in his eyes, veins bulging forward as if he'd just heard a joke.
"Go on then! Try it!"
"Hah…" Cariott sighed, rubbing his forehead in exaggerated exasperation, as if soothing a migraine.
"Honestly, it's the same with every last one of you Thorzeus Fudge barbarians. None of you can see the bigger picture… and the rest of us are always left to clean up your mess."
Zeo offered him the finger.
"Remember, flameboy—it's thanks to one of my barbarians that your scout didn't bite the dust."
Clap.
Cariott calmly brought his gloved hands together.
"I'll be sure to thank Annellie Theralde profusely... after I've tied her to a chair and finished interrogating her on suspicions of espionage."
"I believe it's time to humor Kreutz's recommendation."
The air in the chamber suddenly grew more tense—borderline hostile.
Bzzt!
The electricity crackling over Zeo flared up, wilder and more erratic, as he ran an unamused hand through his hair.
"Four-eyes getting restless or something? Who does he think he is, picking his nose in a Vander's faction?!"
Cariott folded his hands in his lap, responding with that same maddening calm.
"He is the Paramount of the Upper Institute, after all. A man of influence. He's made his contributions, and so his opinion must be respected. Even by us."
Then Cariott sighed, shaking his head with a mockingly regretful tilt.
"I've kept him in check out of faith and trust in the rest of you. But with the recent... unsettling movements in and out of the tower, what's happening now, and your continued refusal to behave, Zeo—"
He leaned forward slightly.
"—it seems that trust was gravely misplaced."
Cariott's crescent-moon smile vanished.
His eyes opened slowly, revealing smoldering crimson pupils, and his frown weighed like a verdict.
"The lot of you have proven incapable of keeping your backyards clean. So I'll manage them for you."
Sarissa, Gil, and Filvis froze where they stood. The other adjutants and Vander didn't move at all—sitting or standing, they remained still and expressionless, as if unaffected by the sudden shift in tone.
All but Zeo.
He scratched his chin, then slowly stepped toward Cariott. Leaning in, he bent slightly at the waist, lowering his voice to a growl—one breath short of a snarl.
"That's a bit rich coming from you. Shouldn't you lead by example and practice what you preach, our dear stand-in king?"
Cariott remained unmoved as his signature smile returned in full.
"That's a bit uncalled for. To begin with, comparing dear Leopold to your savage is a bit disingenuous on your part."
"Huh?" Zeo raised an exaggerated brow.
The Wand of Fire chuckled.
"Don't play dumb, Barbarian. Although many things about Leopold's background are questionable, unlike Annelie, he follows orders to the letter, shows proper respect and courtesy, and carries himself with the class, grace, and nobility expected of any noble and Highmage."
"Am I right, Logwell?" he added after a beat.
The Fire Faction's blindfolded, elderly adjutant nodded like a seasoned soldier from behind his Vander's chair.
"Yes, my Lord."
Zeo clicked his tongue. "And? That's all that matters? Not results? Like the ones she's shown out there tonight, saving who knows how many lives?"
Cariott shook his head.
"Of course not. Power is what matters most in the end—especially against the enemy we're preparing for. But a loose cannon that can't be grasped or controlled? Better to put it down now than take a gamble on it."
Zeo slowly straightened, hands in his coat pockets, sneering.
"And what if that golden boy of yours is just putting on an act—"
"I trust my sense of judgment."
"And you don't trust mine—"
"Not at all."
"Heh." Zeo snorted. "And what if you're wrong anyway?"
Cariott spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
"Well, then that's just how things will turn out. If the worst comes to pass, all I can do is take responsibility."
Zeo was silent for a moment before he began to laugh—slowly.
"Hah… ha… ha ha…"
Then he pounded his chest, his laughter growing louder and faster.
"Hah hah hah hah hah hah hah!!!"
Everyone turned to him like he'd lost his mind. Gil stiffened and stepped back.
Not good. Lord Zeo is really mad this time.
Zeo ran a hand through his hair again before jabbing a finger at Cariott.
"This is why I can't stand you, you damn hypocrite. Always with your double standards!"
Cariott let out another sigh before slowly rising from his throne.
"Well, for once it seems like we agree on something."
Zeo's smile twisted deeper as lightning danced around him. Flames rolled off Cariott in waves, turning the chamber into a furnace, colliding with Zeo's stray bolts.
Bzzt!
Fwoosh!
"Good. I always wanted to see just how strong you really are, Sneaky Eyes!"
Gil took another step back. Logwell, silent behind Cariott, did the same—face blank, unconcerned.
Sarissa Alfeld exhaled in relief as Elfaria calmly raised a slender finger, cooling the room around them and keeping their side unaffected.
Filvis Chalia, outwardly unbothered, was screaming inside.
Ahh. So scary. So scary. So much power. So much confrontation! So much talking! W-what if I'm asked to contribute?! I wanna die. I wanna die. Lefiya, Lady Elleanor, please do something!
It was fortunate the elf wore a mask—otherwise her true self, known only to her best friend and Vander, would've been disgracefully laid bare for all to see.
Lefiya Viridis casually raised her coat to shield her Vander from the magical outbreak—though it wasn't necessary. All the while she refilled her master's goblet with a dutiful smile.
"What will you do, Lady Ellenor?" she asked softly.
Ellenor Ljos Alf sat on her throne at the table, eyes closed, arms crossed—indifferent and visibly disinterested.
"Do? Don't be ridiculous. I'll stay here and observe. This is the mages' home, not mine."
Sarissa adjusted her square glasses, chewing on her lip as anxiety bubbled inside.
They're barely holding out as it is, and now the Magia Vander are fighting among themselves! At this rate, they'll—
She cut her own thoughts short, stunned as her Vander—her lazy, shut-in, good-for-nothing Vander—slowly rose from her seat and began walking around the table.
"?! …Huh? Just a m-moment, Lady Elfaria?!"
But the Hallowed Icemaiden ignored her adjutant's pleas. Her heels clacked audibly across the room, drawing Zeo and Cariott's attention as she stepped right between them and continued past without so much as a glance.
Thump.
Thump.
Each step deliberate, she practically stomped toward her destination.
Right in front of Masterias Noah.
"Rescind your order. We're wasting time," she said simply.
"My mind is made up. Stand down, Elfaria," Aaron replied, voice low beneath his hood, eyes casting a side glance toward the youngest Vander.
For a moment, silence.
Just the two of them—locked in an invisible contest.
Icy blue eyes bore into ocean blues, veiled behind ancient runes.
The youngest Vander, the greatest magical prodigy in history, stared down the oldest Vander—the strongest of them all.
Neither gave an inch. Neither would relent.
When it became clear that Aaron wouldn't be swayed by words alone, Elfaria opted for a show of force.
Her icy mana burst outward in waves, freezing over the same room Cariott had just heated moments ago.
She's already recovered this much magic power… or maybe she just has that much…
Ellenor narrowed her eyes and looked down at her drink, now frozen solid.
Uninterested in thawing it herself—or bothering to ask someone else—she snorted and tossed the goblet to the floor.
"Hmph."
Elfaria ignored the noise behind her. Her hair fluttered as her mana surged, and with fists clenched at her side, she spoke from the gut.
"I'm going to help the people I care about… I'm going to help Will."
"If you try to stop me, I'll take you down too."
Watching her Vander suddenly look so imposing, so heroic, Sarissa couldn't help but squeal like a passionate fangirl.
"Eeek… L-L-L-Lady Elfaria?!"
It seemed the former Albis Vina candidate was well and truly wrapped around Elfaria's finger.
But Sarissa snapped out of it quickly. Aaron's expression had darkened. Zeo and Cariott looked ready to return to their argument.
N-not good… the squabbles of two Vander are already dangerous on a normal day… if Lord Aaron takes action to suppress Lady Elfaria—and if she dares to resist and ignite a full-on conflict… this could really be the end of times!
I-I have to do something!
Sarissa straightened up, took a breath, and cleared her throat—loudly.
"A-ahem!"
The room froze. Every eye turned toward her. The stray pressure radiating from the three frustrated Vander vanished in an instant.
Sarissa forced a smile as all attention locked onto her. Brows raised. Judgement thick in the air.
P-petty moves like this are never my thing, b-but I really don't have a choice right now…
She adopted a solemn facade.
"B-before we bicker amongst ourselves… isn't there someone far more suspicious—and possibly dangerous—we should be dealing with first?"
Gathering her wits, Sarissa looked toward Aaron. Or more precisely, toward the figure standing dutifully behind him.
And then, all eyes followed.
For a moment, the tension shifted. The rising heat between Vander cooled as a new presence took center stage.
Unasked questions, once buried beneath protocol and politics, now stirred at the surface.
Zeo, naturally, was the first to speak his mind.
With a raised brow, he clicked his tongue. "Yeah, Old Man. Since when did you have a number two?"
He said it while sizing up the blonde elf with the eyepatch, his curiosity only half-masked.
The Light Faction—Masterias Noah—wasn't a faction in the true sense.
It was more a loose group of Light Mages, bound to Aaron alone. He protected them, and they in turn supported him, especially during the annual reinforcement of the Great Barrier. After all, Light Magic was the one element necessary for casting Vandes Terminalia.
That's why, every generation without fail, there's always a Wand of Light—even if their strength pales compared to other Vander candidates.
So while officially the eight tower factions compete for five Magia Vander seats, in truth, they only vie for four.
One seat has always been reserved.
The sole exception? The era of the Mage Queen.
But she had been a prodigy beyond measure, wielding both Light and Dark magic—an unprecedented feat.
Her five disciples formed the first Magia Vander:
The Flame Emperor, Incindia Barham.
The Thunder Emperor, Thorzeus Fudge.
The Ice Empress, Albis Vina.
The Earth Empress, Grantina L'Abysse.
And the Wind Emperor, Solphis Neamhain.
When the Great Barrier was completed, two more disciples established the Light and Dark branches:
Masterias Noah.
Tenebrias Noctane.
The Fairy Faction, Elleaf Canaan, emerged later—brought by the elves who arrived from beyond Paradise.
The point is this: Light Magic isn't just important. It's sacred. Indispensable. And Light Mages are in such rare supply they can't even sustain a proper faction.
While others hold a stratum of the Tower—Fire on the 6th floor, Fairy on the 5th, Thunder on the 4th, Ice on the 3rd, the losing factions (Earth, Wind, and Dark) share the 2nd floor, with the Colorless stranded on the 1st—the Light Faction has no floor of its own.
They go where Aaron goes.
They stay on the top floor when he's in the Tower.
They follow him into the dungeon when he departs.
A few like Iris serve in secretive roles—watchers, scouts, internal eyes—but even then, the numbers are so sparse it's more like a secret order than a faction.
There's never been an adjutant.
There's never needed to be one.
Because there's no faction to manage.
At least nothing grand that can't be managed by the Wand of Light, himself.
No delegation of rewards.
No training rosters.
No paperwork.
No research oversight.
Aaron—or his predecessors—handled it all.
So then… why the change?
"I'm an old man with who knows how many years left in him. Doesn't hurt to be cautious and keep a successor by my side, does it?"
Aaron Masterias Oldking spoke rhetorically, with the same casual indifference that always laced his words.
Nearly every Vander present wanted to scoff in unison, sharing the same unspoken thought:
Running out of time?You?The world would sooner fall than you die, Old Man.
Cariott composed himself and eased back into his chair, shifting his attention to Aaron's adjutant.
"Patri, was it? I've always been interested in you. Mind introducing yourself?"
Patri, silent until now, smiled pleasantly. "My name is Patri. I'm an elf. I use light magic. The rest is classified."
"…"
Cariott's lip twitched.
Zeo nearly choked, holding back a laugh.
When it became clear Aaron had no intention of elaborating, Cariott sighed and turned his head toward the other elf at the table.
"Well, Ellenor, care to explain on behalf of our friend here?"
The High Elf Queen snorted. "You've asked me this question quite a few times now, Cariott. The answer won't change. I have no idea who this man is."
Cariott's smile thinned, no longer reaching his eyes. He clicked his tongue. "And forgive me if I say I don't believe you, dear Ellenor. Because I don't."
He didn't need to elaborate.
Everyone knew: the elves were notoriously secluded. They cared little for outsiders—but knew one another intimately.
It was common knowledge that the Elven Queen could name every single elf born in her generation, and the generations before it.
So for Ellenor Ljos Alf—the current Queen—to claim ignorance of an elf standing right here, and not just any elf, but an Ascendant who wields Light Magic, an element no elf is supposed to possess…
It was more than suspicious.
It was dangerous.
Ellenor spread her hand in a helpless gesture, a derisive smile tugging at her lips.
"I'm as curious about him as you are. But that's the truth. Lefiya, anything to add?"
The former Elleaf Canaan—her unofficial predecessor and current Fairy Faction adjutant—smiled gently and shook her head.
"No, Lady Ellenor. I've never met Sir Patri, nor do I know of him."
Zeo casually picked his ear, scratching his chin with idle thought.
"Ain't there another stray elf in this tower? The one always buzzing around that pretty boy?"
Ellenor shrugged. "Still no clue. But from my observations, this friend seems to know him."
"I concur," Cariott added, nodding slightly.
All eyes drifted back to Patri.
He still wore that same patient smile, but the air around him felt thinner now—measured, scrutinized.
After a long pause, he sighed softly, shaking his head in quiet amusement.
Then, without a word, he turned and strolled toward the balcony, footsteps light.
"Where are you going, Patri?" Aaron called out flatly.
The elf glanced back over his shoulder, a bright smile spreading across his face.
"Our friends here doubt both my origins and my allegiance. I suppose I have no choice but to prove I'm on your side."
Aaron's deep, aged voice cut in again. "I have forbidden all Vander from—"
"I am no Vander."
"But you are my guard, and must stay here to protect me."
Patri turned, chuckling softly at his master.
"Lord Aaron, the last person in need of protection in this world is you."
The King of the Magia Vander fell silent for a moment, then shook his head.
"Still, the life of every light mage is valuable—almost as much as a Vander. As my successor, yours is worth even more. I will not have you take part in this dangerous battle—"
"I will not fight," Patri interrupted, drawing raised brows from Aaron and the others.
With a respectful bow, Patri repeated, "I will not fight the Devander. You have my word."
Zeo narrowed his eyes. "Then what do you intend to do? Stand around and pose?"
Patri chuckled, shaking his head.
"Let me clarify—I will not enter the battle intending to fight the Devander, nor in any conventional way."
Confusion deepened on the faces of those who wore their emotions openly.
Patri chuckled again, turned back, and hopped onto the balcony railing, glancing over his shoulder.
"One of my dearest friends—and least liked—always called me a pest. You want to know what I'm capable of? Let me show you."
Without another word, the elf dematerialized into motes of yellow light, shooting downward toward Rigarden.
Silence filled the room as all eyes turned to the orb, breaths held, waiting—half-expecting—to see what the mysterious elf would do next.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Headless stood still, now alone at his hiding spot, his thoughts quietly stirring.
Marze went on ahead, probably to finish off that troublemaker… I should wrap things up here…
The Ghotia scourge lifted a finger as dark magic gathered at the tip of his wand—then flicked it.
Fwoom.
A flare of inky black shot into the distance, catching the Devander's attention. Like a beacon, it redirected its focus back to the real target.
The Vander at the top of the tower.
"Grahhh!!!" the fiend screeched, its cry banshee-like. Its shadowy wings unfurled with a snap as it launched into the sky.
Clairie, riding her broom nearby, stiffened at the sudden movement.
Agh… I can't let it near Central Flos!
With a burst of wind magic, she rocketed forward, wand leveled. Several magical arrays spun into being, forming an Overlapping Series around her.
Blasts of water and fire erupted from them in sync—never clashing, never crossing.
As if sensing them without looking, the Devander twisted mid-air. It weaved between the attacks, dodging each with unnatural grace.
Escaping the barrage unscathed, it had no intention of giving Clairie another chance to strike.
It turned sharply, fixing on her with glowing malice. Darkness welled in its open jaws.
"Rawrrr!"
Then it fired.
The slowest element in existence was still far too fast for Clairie to react to.
"?!"
Sweat trickled down her chin as her vision was consumed by black—a darkness so absolute, even night vision failed.
"Serah!" Edward shouted from below, voice laced with horror. But it seemed too late.
Until it wasn't.
A blinding light—radiant, holy, impossible—erupted from above. It struck with such brilliance that even Clairie, Edward, and all watching had to shield their eyes.
It shone so bright, it stung.
The Devander froze mid-air, its attack still streaking for miles before fading harmlessly into the dark—never making contact.
As for Clairie, she now knelt on a rooftop several meters from where she'd floated, furiously rubbing her eyes as tears streamed down in an almost cartoonish flood.
Patri winced, a bit guilty.
"Sorry about that, Arbiter. I was trying to get its attention—"
"Oh put a sock in it!" Clairie hissed, still scrubbing.
Night vision was a crucial trait for the Lyzance—an adaptation from the age of perpetual darkness under the Heavenly Invaders, and still vital in the dungeon.
But that same gift made them painfully sensitive to sudden light, especially of the unexpected, blinding variety.
She was so irritated she couldn't even bring herself to thank whoever saved her—let alone figure out who it was.
"..." Patri scratched his head, completely at a loss.
He had imagined something... nobler. Something more heroic.
The elf sighed, shaking his head. Forget it… I'll never be like Licht or Lemiel.
Clearing his throat, he rose into the air, stopping at eye level with the Devander—though still far enough to stay outside the Mage Slayer's range.
He raised a hand in mock salute.
"Greetings, beast. Would you care to play a game of tag?"
The Devander paused, its browless face contorting in confused stillness.
It was either truly baffled—or the concept of 'tag' meant nothing to it, even with all the intellect the dungeon had gifted it.
Patri grinned, and casually pointed toward a wrecked market stall below. Two children—a boy and a girl—were trembling beneath it, trying to stay hidden.
"It's simple really. Whoever gets to them first, wins."
From a distant rooftop, Wignall's shout rang out in fury.
"What are you doing?!"
But Patri ignored him.
Possibly didn't even hear him.
Meanwhile, the Devander blanked.
It struggled to grasp what this insect was trying to achieve.
Why should the great Devander stoop to play his games—humor a lowly being like him?
"You scared?" Patri cut into its thoughts, his smile twisting into something mocking and vile.
"You have no faith in your speed?"
The Devander froze.
And then it roared.
"Grahhh!!!"
Without another sound, it spun and dove toward the two children—likely siblings—hiding beneath the stall.
"Eek!"
They screamed as the Devander landed before them, raising its Mage Slayer high and swinging it down in a single, merciless arc meant to cleave their heads clean off.
The blade sliced through air.
The children were gone.
It hesitated, blinking with non-existent eyes.
One moment they were there—trembling beneath it—and the next…
They weren't.
It sniffed the air... then slowly turned upward.
Patri was still floating in the sky, exactly where he'd been before.
Or so it seemed.
Because now, nestled safely in each of his arms, were both children.
They stared at him in stunned silence—relieved, shaken, and unsure how to feel about being touched by an elf.
Patri clicked his tongue and shook his head in mock regret.
"Hah… you're just too... slow."
The Devander blanked again, completely thrown.
Me? Slow?
Before it could respond, Patri calmly shook his head.
"One moment. I'll be back."
And then he vanished—no flash, no afterimage.
Not even a second later, he returned to the same spot, now alone.
He chuckled.
"Sorry, had to drop the luggage off elsewhere. But let's keep going."
He then pointed toward a frail old man pinned beneath a collapsed beam. A small child—likely his grandson—was trying to lift it, crying out in helpless panic.
Coincidentally or not, they were in the opposite direction of the tower.
Patri clicked his tongue.
"I'll treat round one as catching you off guard. Surely the great Devander wouldn't lose to a mage in a contest of speed, right?"
"Now go ahead, beast. Prove me wrong."
The Devander blanked—then, without thinking, nodded.
Insect… right… Me strongest… Me fastest… Me will never lose! Insect… just cheated!
It blurred forward, materializing before the pair, and once again swung down to cleave both the unconscious man and the paralyzed boy.
And once again, it struck nothing.
The Devander froze.
The boy, the old man, and the beam pinning him—all gone.
It instinctively looked back.
Patri was still there, hovering mid-air in the exact same spot.
But now, the wooden beam floated beside him. The boy clung to his back in a piggyback, and the old man rested in his arms, cradled with surprising care.
Patri sighed and shook his head.
"Disappointing. Seems like we've overestimated you."
The Devander stiffened, its form twitching with rage.
Patri simply frowned.
"One moment. I'll be right back."
And then he vanished.
In an instant, he appeared on Slumland Street—at the edge of Rigarden—where he'd earlier dropped off the siblings.
Several Lyzance had gathered there, taking shelter from the surrounding chaos.
It was ironic.
These same people had spent decades mocking and scorning the Dwarves' little community—yet now had no shame making themselves at home when theirs was burning.
The boy slid off Patri's shoulders and joined the two children from before, while Patri gently laid his grandfather down on a street mat.
He placed a hand over the man's chest, and a soft brown-green glow spread beneath his palm as he murmured:
"Elysia…"
Then he withdrew his hand.
The boy watched wide-eyed as his grandfather's breathing eased, color returning to his face. Tears welled in his eyes.
Patri gave him a warm smile.
"He'll be fine. He just needs a little rest."
The boy sobbed and threw himself at Patri's leg.
"T-thank you, Mister Elf!"
For a brief moment, the nearby civilians tensed—expecting Patri to wrinkle his nose and swat the child away.
But instead, his expression grew even softer. He ruffled the boy's hair, then gently stepped back, leaving them stunned.
"Don't mention it. Take care."
And just as quickly as he had come, he vanished in a flash of light.
He reappeared instantly before the Devander.
No more than thirty seconds had passed—yet for the frozen Devander, it was like no time at all.
It only snapped back into focus when Patri returned—and like a reflex, its primal instincts flared again.
"Grah!!"
Patri held up a hand in a placating manner and floated down to the street, landing about ten meters across from it.
"Sorry, sorry. Since you're so slow, let's try something else."
"Grahhh!!!"
Patri ignored its fury, his voice only growing more mocking, more derisive.
"I won't move from this spot. I'll fire one attack. You win if you hit me. Surely you can manage that, right?"
The Devander bristled, humiliated, as Patri raised his hand and summoned faint motes of light to his fingertips.
"Rawrr!"
The beast kicked off the ground, shattering the cobblestone beneath its feet and forming a small crater as it launched forward. The air cracked as it swung its blade downward.
In less than a second, it was within three feet of Patri—who fired at that exact moment.
The Devander scoffed mid-swing, confident.
His Mage Slayer was well within nullification range. This wasn't even a contest.
Or so he believed.
Most of the light attack was instantly devoured by the blade.
But a small, golf ball-sized burst—too fast, too close—slipped through and struck the Devander square in the face.
Fwoom!
"Gah?!"
The beast grunted in surprise as the force knocked it back, skidding nearly two feet. Its downward strike missed entirely—the blade didn't even graze a strand of Patri's hair.
It froze like a statue.
The attack hadn't hurt. Not even a burn or a scratch.
Even without the Mage Slayer, it was still a Mage Bane—highly resistant to most spells. It would take a supreme level incantation to deal any real damage.
Patri's blast had been little more than a finger flick to the forehead.
No pain. Just... contact.
And that was what rattled the Devander most.
Despite wielding the Mage Slayer—a weapon that could almost instantly absorb magic within range—and despite being the only one to move, it had still lost.
In a contest of speed.
Once is an occurrence.
Twice is a pattern.
Thrice is evidence.
Three times now, it had lost in raw speed.
And to a mage.
The Devander was no longer angry. Not even humiliated.
It was confused—so deeply, so fundamentally—it was having an identity crisis.
And Patri's mocking tone only made it worse.
"Hah… if you can't even manage this, you may as well just make yourself scarce and begone from my sight."
The Devander stared at him, unmoving.
It didn't understand every word, but it understood enough. And it didn't like the tone one bit.
Then came the final insult.
Patri turned his back.
He looked over his shoulder, wearing a sneer twisted with disgust.
"I'm going to find the other strays. You do as you please."
And without another word, he ascended.
Not like before, though.
This time he moved slowly. Deliberately. So slow he might as well have painted a target on his back.
The Devander knew what this was.
A taunt. A lure. A trap. A waste of its time.
It knew.
But it bit anyway.
Because something inside said it couldn't be what it was—not truly—until it made that arrogant elf pay.
So it shot into the sky like a meteorite, chasing with everything it had.
And Patri smirked in triumph.
A game of cat and mouse began.
Between elf and monster.
Both scoured the battlefield for strays, racing to reach them first.
Be it civilians, wounded mages and dwarves, or the barely conscious—anyone who couldn't move or fight—they would seek them out.
Whenever the Devander spotted one, it would dive in with deadly intent. And every single time, Patri would snatch the person away in the most exaggerated fashion possible.
Every. Single. Time.
Then he'd vanish, drop them off in Slumland far from the chaos, and return to do it all over again.
If Patri saw them first, it wasn't even a competition—he'd blink in and out without pause, barely breaking stride.
Eventually, the Devander stopped trying to save face and just chased him.
Trying to kill him. Interfere. Touch him, at the very least.
But it never could. Patri was always just out of reach.
He led the Devander across Rigarden, zigzagging wildly, their route forming an invisible spider web over the city.
Sometimes, Patri would appear right beside it, lean in, and whisper:
"You're too slow."
"What a disappointment you are."
"I'm over here."
"No, I'm over here."
"Notorious monster? Notorious for being modeled after a snail, maybe?"
Each jab chipped away at the fiend's patience. Each near-hit—allowed only by Patri's mercy—fueled its growing rage.
"Grahh!"
"Rawwr!"
"Gahhh!"
The demon's roars grew louder, more unhinged, until it saw nothing but red—nothing but Patri.
It was humiliated.
It was furious.
It was obsessed.
The mages, the prey, the war—none of it registered anymore.
It bulldozed through homes, flapped its wings to exhaustion, even tried mimicking Will's burst-step speed tricks, and succeeded at that.
But it was pointless.
It just couldn't reach him.
It just wasn't fast enough.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
The mages and dwarves watched the chase unfold in stunned, almost comedic confusion. Headless wasn't doing much better.
But unlike them, Headless was anxious.
Because for a while now, the Devander had stopped listening to him.
Not that he ever had full control to begin with. And after it devoured those Dinobori traces and evolved, even that thin thread of influence had snapped.
But that was fine.
They'd expected it. It had taken fifty lives just to shove the damn thing through the gate. Who knew how many more they'd have to sacrifice to tame it?
So they hadn't bothered.
The plan had been simple: drop the Devander into Rigarden like a living bomb, let it run wild, and wipe out everything in its path.
It was working—until he showed up.
Now, the Devander didn't care about the mission.
Didn't care about the tower.
Didn't care about the Vander.
It only cared about Patri.
And Headless couldn't do a thing about it.
For the first time in years, he felt it—cold sweat, short breath. Panic.
Six years ago, he'd messed up. Bad.
Back when Yulvar, the last Albis Vina, passed and left a tear in the Great Barrier.
It was just a sliver, just enough for them to sneak a Heavenly Invader through. A foot soldier. Still strong enough to wipe out thirty thousand people.
Ghotia had a plan: use it to kill the rising star of the magical world, Elfaria Serfort.
Headless was in charge. He disguised himself as a Tower Watcher, lured the other Vander away, and sealed Elfaria alone in a room with the Invader.
It should've been perfect.
Had Elfaria died back then, there would've been no one capable of substituting for her in the next Terminalia. The Great Barrier would've collapsed.
Headless had thought victory was certain. He didn't even stick around for the fight—just in case reinforcements arrived. He left.
And yet, somehow, Elfaria survived.
Through secret channels, they later learned it was her who killed the Heavenly Invader.
A ten-year-old child had defeated something as powerful as the Devander now facing Patri—maybe even more powerful, given its superior magic resistance.
Headless got chewed out hard by the higher-ups after that.
Elfaria went on to become the most prolific spell inventor in the Vander's history, the greatest magical genius the world had ever seen.
So even if the mission to wipe out the Vander failed, if he could just eliminate her, he might finally redeem himself.
There was no telling how strong she'd gotten since then—so this, this sliver of vulnerability, was probably his only shot.
But it was always something.
Annelie. Asta. Will. And now Patri.
Four unknowns who somehow slayed the Dinobori, or delayed the Devander.
Rigarden was supposed to be rubble by now. Instead, over an hour later, most of it was still standing—and the Tower hadn't even been breached.
By now, the Vander had likely regained enough magic to consistently use teleportation.
Which meant the whole plan was basically cooked.
For the first time in years, Headless felt genuine dread. And Marze's shrieking through the comms wasn't helping.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Huff.
Huff.
Around the town square, the Devander finally showed signs of exhaustion, panting slightly. Patri hovered above it on an invisible platform, arms crossed behind his back.
"Done already?"
He asked casually, drawing a furious grunt from the fiend.
"Grahhh!!"
Patri smiled. "Good to see you still have some energy."
Then his smile faded. "But I'm done with you."
The Devander froze, confused.
Patri snorted.
"A beast will be a beast till the end. Look around, fool. Anyone in need of saving has been saved."
The Devander twisted, scanning the city. Sure enough, only mages and dwarves still capable of fighting remained in sight.
Patri clicked his tongue, shaking his head.
"I've done my part. I have no need to humor you or soil myself with your presence."
The Devander gritted its teeth as Patri's smile turned derisive.
"Tell you what, beast. If you manage to make it to the tower, I'll play with you again. But no shortcuts—only then are you worthy of my time."
"Until then, see you. I'd say it's been a pleasure, but we both know that's a lie."
Without another word, Patri's form dissolved into floating motes of light, shooting skyward toward the tower's summit.
The Devander was left alone.
A moment passed before it bent its back and roared in rage toward Patri's direction.
"Rawwrr!!!"
For a moment, it was tempted to give chase.
For a moment, Headless was relieved.
But then the Devander grunted, shook its head, and stomped off in the opposite direction of the tower.
The faces of other prey who'd slipped away flashed through its mind. Two of them.
It would hunt the bespectacled insect first, then the axe-wielding one. Only then would it consider itself worthy to face its arch-nemesis—the long-eared insect.
Headless collapsed to his knees, whispering through a mouth that wasn't there.
"Marze… I think it's over…"
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Iris watched in shock as Patri disappeared. She raised her head and pleaded,
"N-no, Sir Patri, come back…!"
But her voice didn't reach him. It had been too weak to begin with.
She knew what Patri was doing. He was baiting the beast, distracting it while evacuating the citizens and buying time for the Vander to recover.
That was all he could do under the current circumstances.
As long as the Devander possessed the Mage Slayer, Patri couldn't fight it—couldn't even hurt it.
Now that the city was cleared of civilians, it was up to the remaining mages and dwarves.
Everyone has to do their part to hold up the sky, she reminded herself. Now it's our turn.
If they could knock the Mage Slayer from the Devander's grip, then surely Patri would return and unleash his full strength.
Until then, he would remain by Aaron's side—and the others—shielding them from the real threat. The hidden masterminds within and beyond the tower.
Iris bit her lip, clenching her fist. She felt helpless.
"B-but what are we supposed to do? This thing is just so far out of our league, we can't—"
Bzz.
Her head snapped toward her maser as it began to buzz. She frowned and raised an eyebrow.
"Y-yes? What is it—?"
"Hey! Who are you?! Stop, stay back—aghh!"
She stiffened at the sudden scream, then fell still as the connection went dead again. A cold sweat broke over her skin.
W-what happened? A new enemy hijacking our comms? The mastermind? Traitors?—
Bzz.
The line came alive again. A voice came through—youthful, but composed. A voice she would never forget.
Because it was one she despised.
"Iris."
She swallowed, then nodded with reluctant relief.
She hated him. But she knew exactly what he was capable of.
The other dwarves might not be up to the current task, but she knew he was fundamentally different.
She knew that very well.
"Yes? What is it, Finn—"
"The Sword."
He cut her off, and she stiffened again as he continued, calm and direct.
"Where is the Sword right now?"
Iris chewed her lips bitterly. Of course…
With a resigned sigh, she lowered her head.
"Give me one moment. I'll find his location."
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Several Minutes Earlier:
Workner directed his sky raider away from the heart of the battle, steering toward the edge of Rigarden. His thoughts raced.
The Devander decimated the front lines! Even the few surviving Dinobori could pose a threat, even without Mage Slayers...
This is bad. Neither Wand nor Sword can turn the tide—only...
He glanced over his shoulder. His ward lay slumped behind him, back-to-back, still visibly shocked and withdrawn.
Only Will can do something. He's our last hope...
Workner scanned the city below for somewhere to land—anywhere quiet enough, if such a place even existed in a city under siege and in flames.
Several blinding yellow and golden lights occasionally filled his vision, making the search more difficult than it had to be.
Still, he continued to look.
Will needed time. Not just to rest physically, but to recover emotionally—from the loss of his friend.
As Workner searched, a low, shaky voice broke the silence behind him.
"...I can't... I can't protect them... I can't save anyone... I can't do anything... I'm useless... useless!"
"It's just like before..." Will clenched his fists. "...When they took Elfie away, all I could do was stand there and watch. Helpless!"
"Is it because I can't use magic?" he asked, voice rising with panic.
Workner stiffened.
Then the boy broke down. Tears poured from his eyes, wild and unfiltered.
"It is! That's why I couldn't protect Elfie, or Rosti, or anyone! That's why I couldn't help Shishō, and I'm always getting in his way!"
"It's because I'm a useless No-Talent, Book-Learner, Magicless Flunkee!"
"IT'S ALL MY FAULT!"
Huff.
Huff.
He panted and sobbed into his hands. Sweat trickled down the sides of Workner's face.
"W-Will. It's alright. Just—"
"Professor Workner..." Will cut him off—quiet, but firm. "Why can't I... Why... Why am I…"
He turned to face him. Tears streamed down his face, and Workner froze.
The boy had broken his vow.
The one he made six years ago—when Elfaria left for the tower.
The one he whispered through sobs in Workner's arms: to never cry again.
The boy, spirit broken, spoke from the heart.
"Workner-sensei… why am I defective? Why am I the only one who can't use magic?"
He looked utterly pitiful, his voice soaked in helplessness.
Workner Norgram froze.
Not just because he had no good answer—but because he finally noticed something terrifying. Nearly half of Will's hair had turned grey.
Fear began to bloom in his chest.
Fear for his student's well-being.
Fear that he was losing him. Again.
And that it was about to happen… again.
"Pull yourself together, Will! Will!Will!" Workner shook him by the shoulder, trying to snap him out of it.
But the boy wouldn't listen.
The Sword grew even more distant—curled up, sobbing, clutching his head in frantic agony.
Workner clenched his fist. He was ready to knock the boy out if he had to.
But then—
"Heyo."
A low, gloomy voice cut in, freezing them both.
They turned.
Marze.
Will recognized him immediately.
Workner had seen his sketch on the wanted posters.
They both knew who he was.
"So it was you...?" Will growled, his voice shaking with anger.
Marze stood on a pair of knives crossed in an X beneath his feet, floating midair.
His smile—normally unmistakable behind the mask—was gone.
For once, he looked truly furious. Bitter and fed up.
He pointed his wand toward them. Magic circles spun into place, and from them emerged blades—knives, daggers, even short swords—all floating and aimed directly at the two.
"Everything's a fuckin' mess," he muttered coldly.
"And you, glasses boy… seem to be at the center of it all."
"I can't find that silver-haired bitch. Pity—I had something special planned just for her. So I'll settle for you…"
"I'll probably have to go underground after this, so don't even think about being angry. The only one with a right to be pissed off is me."
Will and Workner both broke into a cold sweat.
The dark-enhanced barrage of weapons shot toward them.
Workner stepped in front of Will, arms out defensively, as he tapped his own chest.
Behind him, the swordsman grimly drew his Moria Blade.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Boom!
At that exact moment, Colette looked up. An explosion lit the sky in the same direction she'd been staring.
Her brows scrunched, stunned. A single name came unbidden to her lips.
"...Will?"
"Mreow!"
Before she could dwell on it, a familiar cry made her snap her head sideways.
"Kiki?!"
The Carbuncle looked a bit roughed up, but not seriously injured. She leapt into Colette's arms and gave her a pitiful lick.
"Mrow?"
Sensing the sorrow in her familiar's eyes, Colette didn't press her for answers. Instead, she locked eyes with Kiki.
"Follow Will's scent. Lead me to him!"
The Carbuncle hesitated—then nodded.
"Mreow!"
Without delay, she jumped from Colette's arms and began sniffing the air and street. She darted forward, guiding her master's friend—coincidentally or not—straight toward the explosion's location.
"Colette, where are you going?!"
Lihanna shouted after her, worried.
The Earth Princess glanced over her shoulder but didn't slow her stride.
"Don't worry about it. The rest of you get to safety."
Lihanna froze in place. But before she could respond, Sion gritted his teeth and bolted after Colette.
"I got her. You guys go!"
Lihanna hesitated, then sighed and took off too. Wignall followed without a word.
That left only Julius.
He clicked his tongue in frustration.
"Oh, for the love of…"
But the Reinburg heir chased after them as well—though he made sure to curse under his breath the whole way.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Far Away:
"Took you long enough…" Asta snorted, though there was no real heat in his voice as he caught Danma.
He twirled the Demon Slayer Sword in his hand, staring at it with a complicated expression.
He hadn't summoned it in six years.
Not just to lay low—of all his anti-magic weapons, this one hurt the most.
Because this was the sword where it all began. The first time he truly accessed Liebe's power, even if he hadn't realized it back then.
And that made it the most painful reminder of the brother he lost.
The brother who gave his life to save him—dragging him back from the edge of death after the Celestial Host gravely wounded him.
The brother who gave everything—his life, his power, even his body—to fix what couldn't be fixed.
The devil who sacrificed himself… nearly turning Asta into one in the process.
For a long while, Asta teetered on the edge. The power flowing through him warped his spirit—made him darker, angrier, more volatile. More devil than human.
That's why, after losing everything—his brother, his family, his friends, and his world—he disappeared into the dungeon in Paradise.
Not to conquer it.
But to keep himself away from the people he still had left… before he lost control.
He felt murderous back then, consumed by rage. So he buried himself in battle, venting his fury on monsters—slaying them by the dozens just to silence the howling in his blood.
That's where he first met Will.
And nearly choked the life out of him.
It was thanks to Will—thanks to that stupid, stubborn kid who wouldn't give up on him—that Asta didn't completely lose himself.
For four long years, Asta lived like a devil. Cloaked at all times to hide his black horns, corrupted arms, and the Weg that twisted around him like chains.
Until two years ago.
That's when Grey—once so shy and bright, now quiet, cynical, and broken ever since Gauche passed—managed to transmute his body back to normal.
That was why, for four long years, he and Will spent most of their time in the dungeon—until two years ago, when he stopped taking him there.
Not just because Will nearly lost his life and sense of self back then, but because Asta could finally live as a human again—with Noelle, on the surface.
They got married. She became pregnant with Nigel about six months later.
Still, like someone running from their demons—or perhaps from his devil—Asta tried to ignore his grimoire. And his swords.
They reminded him too much of Liebe. Too much of the world he failed to protect.
But now, he had summoned one back.
Truthfully, Asta didn't need the Demon Slayer Sword anymore. With anti-magic now flowing through his very veins, Liebe's power was fully his. He was the weapon.
But Asta was a swordsman.
And even if those swords brought sorrow, they were still his. Precious. If he was going to fight again, he would do it with them.
Besides, it was safer this way.
Grey had transmuted his body back to normal, but part of his soul—his essence—remained corrupted.
Channeling anti-magic directly from his body made him unstable. Irritable. At times, violent.
But channeling through these weapons, already imbued with anti-magic, was different. It didn't provoke the same reaction.
Asta gripped the sword with both hands and inhaled deeply, channeling his power into and back from the blade in a steady cycle.
Nothing changed.
No blackened limbs.
No devil union.
No markings.
No horns.
No wings.
No tail.
No red irises.
That part of him was gone for good.
All that remained was Asta.
The only visible change was a faint red outline pulsing around his body, with flickers of black lightning sparking around him as he floated slightly off the ground.
Yet, somehow, he looked more powerful. More terrifying. More complete.
Boom!
The air cracked and warped as he launched forward—a black and red shooting star blazing toward Rigarden.
He paced himself carefully. If he let loose completely, he could move much faster.
But he didn't want to unleash an even worse monster on Rigarden.
With Yuno out and about, no one would be able to stop him if he lost control.
Still, hundreds of meters vanished in the blink of an eye as he streaked across the sky.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
"Not bad, ya little punk, I'll give ya that."
Marze clutched his left shoulder as grotesque, dark blood poured from shattered bone.
Sweat trickled down his cheek while he floated in the air atop his crossed knives, teeth grinding behind his mask.
"Never thought you'd go for the kill in that state…"
His smile widened.
"Still… looks like I took a chunk outta your pal. It's over."
He looked down at Will, slumped unconscious beside the corpse of the sky raider, sprawled across the cracked street.
Marze snorted and turned away, drifting upward.
Even if the kid was alive, he didn't care. Not now.
He was injured, and at this rate, he could barely cast Hide, let alone any real magic. Vulnerable and helpless.
Still… kid's got guts. Begrudgingly, Marze felt a flicker of respect.
He decided to spare him.
What mattered now was finding Headless and getting the hell out.
Ghotia can go fuck themselves, he thought bitterly.
From the start, this whole mess was on the tower's spies. Their intel was garbage.
"Easy victory," they said.
Yeah? Then where the hell did these four freaks come from?
Two of them were clearly high-ranking mages from the tower. No excuses.
Marze sneered as he scanned the ruined skyline, searching for cover—and for his partner.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Present:
Koff. Koff. Koff.
Will coughed hard, breathing heavily as he groaned and slowly pushed himself up onto his knees.
His sword?
He glanced around but saw no sign of it.
His eyes flicked toward the wreckage of the sky raider. Then he twisted his head, trying to get his bearings—confused.
The confusion only grew.
No landmarks. No familiar stores. Not even ruins he recognized.
"W-where am I—?"
"The western city limits."
A voice answered—familiar, though oddly unsteady.
"I guess we crashed. All I could do... was keep you alive…"
Will turned toward it and froze.
Workner smiled weakly. His glasses were gone, and blood trickled from his mouth, nose, and ears.
That was already bad enough.
But the real horror came into focus a moment later.
There was a large, gaping hole in Workner Norgarm's abdomen. Bloody and brutal.
Will's breath caught. He blinked. Once. Twice.
No. No, this isn't real.
It had to be a dream. A hallucination. A joke. Some twisted illusion.
"Professor Workner…" he whispered, voice cracking, teeth digging into his own lip.
But nothing changed.
He was awake.
And this was real.
Cold, hard reality.
Tears blurred his vision as Workner looked down at him—kind and sincere, even now.
"Will… I'm sorry to ask this of you, but you're our only hope now… No one else but you can save the city—"
"I can't do it, Professor!" Will interrupted, his voice sharp and panicked. He looked down, shoulders shaking, eyes distant.
He trembled as he forced himself to meet his teacher's gaze in what he knew were his final moments.
"R-Rosti died because of me… and now… y-you're dying too! H-How am I supposed to save the city if I can't even protect the people close to me?!"
"How am I supposed to save anyone… if I always need someone to save me?!"
"I-I can't do anything! I can't change anything! I'm not the sword you're looking for! Shishō is—"
"No, Will. It's you."
Workner's voice was firm, silencing him.
The professor collapsed to his knees and rested his bloodied head against Will's shoulder. He pulled the boy into a weak, final hug.
"It's always been you," he murmured. "I know you… can do it, Will—"
"I can't!" Will shook his head, holding his teacher upright. "I-It's not me! A no-talent like me could never—!"
"Will… I'm sorry. I've been lying to you… we've all been lying to you."
Will went still. "Huh?"
"Magic… you can use magic…" Workner's voice faded, faltering as his vision blurred and his body weakened. "There's one spell… that can give you hope… give all of us hope…"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"All you need… is a silver light… and a little will-power…"
"W-Workner-sensei?" Will's voice broke as he clutched him tightly.
No answer.
"Wait—wait, don't go!" he cried. "Please don't die!"
"What spell can I use?!"
He screamed into the sky.
But Workner said nothing.
He was gone.
Just as the boy was about to break down for the fourth time today—and the third within the hour—the sound of footsteps, followed by a voice, made him lift his head.
"Hello, Sword."
Will blinked at the blonde-haired boy standing nearby.
"You're… Finn?"
Finn smiled.
"That's right. I'm glad you remembered me."
Will lowered his head, guilt washing over him.
"Mrs. Silva said I shouldn't talk to you."
Finn's eye twitched, but he didn't respond to that. Instead, he looked over at Workner. His expression softened slightly.
"He'll be just fine. He'll start breathing again once his pulse picks up."
Will froze.
What?
He'll be fine?
His pulse? But… isn't he dead?
And how can his pulse pick up when there's barely even a heart left to beat—
Thump!
Thump!
Will's thoughts stopped cold as the sound of a heartbeat filled his ears.
He stared, stunned. Then, carefully—like he was handling the most delicate jewel—he laid his professor down.
He rubbed his eyes, confused.
Wasn't that wound… bigger before?
And stranger still—it was slowly, almost imperceptibly, shrinking.
His head spun. He clutched it, overwhelmed.
Then a voice whispered in his mind—unmistakable, clear, and distant, as though echoing from the past:
He's different from ordinary mages. There's something hidden around his chest… I didn't realize the academy had these kinds of "monsters." I've got to keep my guard up…
Elfi?!
He looked around, startled, but saw no sign of his childhood friend.
And that snapped him back to reality.
Will shook his head, trying to collect himself. He needed answers. Real ones.
He turned to the dwarven guide, forgetting all of Noelle's warnings. Only now did he notice Finn idly toying with a sword in his hand.
His Moria Blade.
The dwarf, meanwhile, seemed to have lost interest in the riddle that was Workner Norgram.
"Forget him," Finn said casually. "Let's talk about you."
"?!"
Will flinched.
"Don't look so surprised." Finn chuckled. "Sword, what are you doing just sitting here? Can't you see the stage has been set?"
Will's brow furrowed.
"M–me?"
"Is there another Sword I'm talking to?"
Will opened his mouth, struggling for words.
"W–what am I supposed to do? Workner-sensei said something about—"
"A silver light that can cut through all, and a little willpower?"
Will froze, then nodded hesitantly.
"Y–yeah. What does that mean? W–what in Paradise was he even talking about—"
"Heh."
Finn laughed, shaking his head.
"Did you hear the word spell and picture some grand inferno or swirling cyclone? Come on, you know better than that."
"Wha—?"
"You're a bit of a dull Sword," Finn said, gently running his fingers along the blade like it was a precious child. "But I don't hate your type."
He leaned forward slightly, making sure Will's magenta eyes met his clear ocean blue.
"What he meant was the place where willpower lives—in your feelings. You might call it self-suggestion."
He smiled more brightly.
"You raise your voice in a shout to move yourself to act. A war cry so loud it makes your own lies real. A transformation born not from logic, but from conviction."
"That doesn't make any sense!" Will cut in, panicked.
"That sort of thing isn't real! It's something kids say in stories! How are feelings supposed to help me save anyone?! To fight that?!"
"It's not—"
"NONSENSE!"
Finn's sudden yell snapped Will back to the present like a slap to the face.
The dwarf no longer looked like the playful, carefree boy from a moment ago.
Now he stood like a soldier—resolute, commanding.
"Nothing could be more important!" he barked. "You're the one making it complicated! A man who can't change himself—a man too afraid to face the unfamiliar—can never hope to change the world!"
He stepped forward, eyes blazing.
"Are you a sword, or are you not?!"
"I—I am—"
"No! You're more than that!" Finn roared. "You're a sword that wishes to become a wand! You're living proof of the impossible—of the insane! And that's exactly what makes you right for this!"
Will froze, his gaze drifting past Finn toward the top of the tower.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
His heartbeat quickened. It wasn't fear.
It was something else.
Excitement.
Anticipation.
It pounded in his chest like a drum ready for battle.
Finn thrust his sword out in front of him, pointing directly at Will.
"Remember your roots! Return to the beginning! To where your story began!"
Then, with purpose, he embedded the blade into the ground in front of the boy.
"The lock's already been broken," he said quietly, giving Will's hair a brief glance before smiling. "Now… take your sword."
The dwarf clenched his left fist and pressed it against the hilt.
Will's eyes widened as he saw blood begin to drip—slowly, deliberately—from Finn's hand.
"Come, Sword," Finn said, voice soft but fierce.
"Let us go on a quest—over the hills of darkness, and beyond the false sky."
He locked eyes with Will one last time.
"Be the sword that clears the path for us all."
And then, the blood touched the handle, trickling down, spreading across the blade.
Bzzt!
Silver lightning crackled violently over the metal, and Will's eyes widened.
"You already know the answer!" Finn shouted. "You know the name of the spell that sleeps inside your heart!"
Will stood, mesmerized, as his confusion slowly began to clear.
Finn had given him the Silver Light.
But the willpower—that had to come from him.
And then it happened.
Visions.
Flashes of memories.
Moments he couldn't even remember living until now.
And through them all, one image stood out:
His Shishō, smiling down at him during a training session.
Then came Asta's voice—not spoken aloud, but echoing within.
Not the absence of fear… but the will to act in spite of it.
To face what terrifies you. To overcome. To conquer.
Will Serfort… you know what we call that?
"Raise your voice and be reborn!" Finn shouted.
Badump!
Will saw her.
Elfie.
The last time they saw each other—face-to-face—before she entered the tower.
His wavering eyes steadied.
"Sword!" Finn called. "What is the name of your spell?!"
Will stepped forward and yanked the sword from the earth.
The silver-white light swirled around him—dancing, crackling, matching the color of his hair—until it looked as if the light itself was alive.
Then, from the deepest part of his soul, he screamed:
"Courage!"
And the moment the word left his lips, the light surged into him.
Not just surrounding him—entering him.
Reshaping him.
Reforging him.
No—awakening him.
His hair turned completely silver.
His skin grew paler, like moonlight kissed by snow.
Will Sefort stood reborn.
Finn's grin returned—equal parts satisfied, overjoyed, and laced with an unsettling anticipation.
"Limiter off… now draw your sword!"
BOOM!
Will blasted forward in a beam of silver light, streaking toward the Central Flois without another word.
And he wasn't alone.
Finn blinked—because not a second after, a blast of crimson darkness shot past him, making his pupils shrink in shock.
Who—?!
But the beam didn't target him—it raced toward the battlefield beyond.
Only three Dinobori remained now, all unarmed. Beasts that, under normal circumstances, the mages could've dealt with.
But they were exhausted—drained from relentless fighting, rescue efforts, and defending the injured. Most had nothing left. No magic. No strength. Just the acceptance of death.
In three separate locations, the Dinobori raised their claws to finish off the helpless.
And in those same three places…
They fell.
To the west, the first monster exploded into a wet spray of flesh.
"W-what was that white light?" the mage beneath it gasped, bracing for a death that never came.
To the east, the second was cleaved clean through the torso.
"Black…?" Donovan blinked, disoriented.
Gina squinted. "I thought I saw red…"
And to the south, the final Dinoboros stood over an unconscious high mage—only to be slashed clean by a pair in an X-shaped motion at the exact same instant.
It all happened in a flash.
And in that flash, time froze.
Will landed, his heart racing—and turned.
"Shishō…?"
Asta stood there. A maelstrom of black and red energy twisted around him like a violent aura. Will's instincts screamed danger. Like he was facing a natural enemy. Something to fear. Something to destroy.
Yet all he felt… was warmth.
Their eyes met.
And once again, Will saw it—that complicated look Asta wore so often. Sorrow. Regret. Conflict.
But this time… Will understood it.
The boy, now reborn as a magical swordsman, gave a bittersweet smile.
And whispered:
"Never again, Shishō… never again will I forget. That's a promise."
A real one.
One he wouldn't break.
Asta paused, then chuckled softly and shook his head, the tension in his face easing.
Then he pointed forward.
"I'll hold you to that. Now go! This is your time—show them what you're made of, Hero!"
Will's eyes stung, but he didn't stop.
Because the very next instant—Asta was gone.
Vanished in a blink, only seen by him…
And by Finn.
But Will didn't hesitate.
Not even for a moment.
He pressed forward—blade in hand, heart ignited.
It was time for payback.
Time to end the madness.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Elsewhere:
Near the Central Flois, Team Lihanna knelt, bruised, bloodied, and barely standing.
Lihanna, Wignall, and Julius slumped to the ground, wheezing from overexertion.
Only Colette remained on her feet, screaming toward the chaos ahead, tears brimming in her eyes.
"Sion! Get out of there!"
"Grrr…" The Ulster heir gritted his teeth, clutching his aching right arm as he held his ground.
Before him stood the Devander—the same monster that had torn through seasoned High Mages like paper.
And he wasn't backing down.
His veins pulsed with fury as he grabbed his elbow and forced his arm forward, even while pain screamed through it. Flames danced at the tip of his wand, flickering defiantly.
"I'm not going anywhere!"
"If he were here," Sion roared, "he'd never run! That coward's braver than any of us—and I'll be damned if I let him show me up!"
The others could only watch—frozen—as the Devander lunged, a claw raised to end Sion's life.
His magic was draining rapidly, devoured by the Mage Slayer's nature.
Still… he didn't look away. He stared death in the eye.
And because of that—he saw it.
A flash of white.
"Grahh!"
The Devander reeled—one second it was mid-swing, the next it was launched backward, violently, crashing down the street like a ragdoll, tumbling through homes and storefronts in a plume of rubble.
Someone now stood in front of Sion—sword drawn. Back straight. Protective.
Bathed in silver light.
A voice echoed—not aloud, but inside:
You're wrong, Sion…
I was always jealous of you. I spent my whole life wishing to be you. To be a wand. So from now on… let me be your Mage Blade.
The light dimmed just enough for the others to see the figure clearly.
"Will?"
"Serfort?!"
"No-Talent?!"
Sion's eyes widened, stunned.
"…Flunkee," he muttered. "Just what are you?"
Will gave a small, soft smile.
"Your friend."
And then—without hesitation—he stepped forward, silver light coiling around him like a living aura.
The final battle had begun.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Author's Note:
[1] I changed Thorzeus Fasce to Thorzeus Fudge because I think that's the superior translation based on pronunciation.
[2] Longest chapter I've ever written. It was exhausting.
[3] If you'd like to chat, discuss the story, or hang out, feel free to join the Discord: https://discord.gg/s3MME8X8ar