A fist tore through the air, a tempest of force and fury trailing behind it. The impact shattered nearby rocks, tearing the earth asunder where it met flesh. The horned figure staggered, crimson eyes flaring against dark gray skin as he absorbed the blow, jaw snapping back but his stance unyielding. His thick, wavy red-and-black hair whipped like a banner in the storm of violence.
With a snarl, the demon lord countered, swinging a fist heavy as a hammer through the charged air—but the figure below him moved with blinding grace, slipping past the strike like smoke in a tempest. A savage uppercut followed, exploding into the demon's jaw with a shockwave so violent the very clouds overhead fractured, tearing open a jagged hole in the sky. For a moment, the monstrous warrior wobbled, consciousness threatening to abandon him beneath the sheer ferocity.
But before the demon could fully collapse, a hand ignited—burning with an unnatural blaze of shifting colors, flickering between violet, gold, and crimson—struck with a precision so swift it painted the air with afterimages. The horned adversary's eyes snapped open, just in time to see a flurry of fists pummeling toward his face, a torrent of blows too fast to track individually. With desperate resolve, he summoned a shimmering barrier, a jagged shield of raw earth and arcane energy that roared to life around him.
The shield withstood the assault, but barely. Tremors raced through the battlefield, fissures splitting the ground beneath them, sending shockwaves that threatened to swallow all nearby. Stones shattered, trees splintered, and the air filled with the scent of upheaval. Yet the demon endured, bracing beneath the relentless storm of strikes.
Then, seizing a fleeting gap as the attacker shifted his footing, the demon slammed his massive foot into the earth. The ground exploded upward in a pillar of jagged stone, hurling the mysterious combatant into the air. The horned figure's eyes gleamed with a cruel anticipation, ready to claim the advantage.
But the man's calm did not waver. He simply looked up, then vanished in a brilliant flash of motion, reappearing beside the demon like a specter born of the storm. His punch landed squarely on the demon's jaw, the force sending him hurtling through the air for hundreds of meters, tearing a trail through the sky.
Before the demon could even brace for impact, attacks rained down from all directions. The man moved so fast, so fluidly, his form blurred beyond recognition—an impossible dance of strikes and parries. The demon raised his forearms in a desperate shield, blocking blow after blow, barely pausing as each hit landed with the weight of thunder. His armor, glossy and black as obsidian, caught the light from the flashes of magic and force, spikes on his shoulders and gauntlets gleaming with menace. The skull on his belt glinted ominously as he fought to maintain his footing.
Then, from high above, came a strike packed with a crushing, palpable malice. The fist descended like a meteor hurtling to earth, a blazing comet of raw power that darkened the very air around it. The demon twisted just in time, the miss sending a cataclysmic shockwave roaring through the ground. The earth beneath them shattered and exploded outward, showering debris in every direction.
Both of them crashed down onto separate parts of the rugged, shattered landscape. The man rose steadily, each deliberate step thundering against the earth despite his shorter stature, shaking the ground beneath them. The demon's crimson eyes narrowed, and with a muttered incantation, dark magic swirled at his fingertips—two jagged spears of shadow forged instantly in each hand. Without hesitation, he lunged forward with ferocious speed.
The demon's strength was absurd—almost godlike—but he remained mortal. That arrogance filled his veins as he barreled toward the man, hurling a spear with such velocity it tore through the sound barrier. The weapon struck true, piercing the air with a deadly whistle, but the man barely budged, pushed back only a few dozen meters as if struck by a blunt object rather than a spear.
In a fluid motion, the demon twirled his second spear expertly and vanished beside the man, launching a relentless barrage of blows. The man met every strike, deflecting each with his bare palms—no weapons, just precise, unyielding resistance. The clash was a blur, a storm of steel and force that battered the air and cracked the ground beneath them.
Suddenly, the man's palm shot out, slamming directly toward the demon's face with a gust of wind so fierce it tore a chunk from a nearby mountain and felled several ancient trees. The demon arched back just in time, narrowly evading the strike. Using the momentum, he swung a vicious counterattack that sent the man hurtling several feet backward, crashing through a dense thicket of brambles and broken stones.
Yet, the man remained unscathed, his composure unbroken. A fleeting distraction—but all the demon needed. Closing the gap, the demon unleashed a furious flurry of strikes aimed at the man's torso. The speed was so intense it was a smear of motion, each hit cracking and fracturing the stone wall behind the man, chunks of earth splintering under the assault. The final blow smashed against the man's face, sending him careening backward through the ruined wall and burying him in a cloud of dust and debris.
The demon's chest heaved with heavy breaths. He believed he had dealt damage, at least. But the dust settled. The man rose—slowly, steadily—unscathed, his presence now burning brighter, more commanding than ever before.
This battle was far from over.
Dozens upon dozens of glowing circles lit up the sky, suspended in the air behind the man like a host of vengeful spirits. Each one crackled with unrelenting mana, shaped with such precision it was almost elegant. Their fiery glow painted the air crimson and gold, all of them aimed directly at the demon still rising from the rubble. The world went still for a breath.
And then he spoke, low but clear: "Eight-tier magic: Spitfire."
That was the last thing we heard before the sky turned to light.
A roar of flame and fury surged forth like the heavens themselves had caught fire. The projection shimmered violently at the sheer intensity of the spell, the memory straining to contain it. And just like that, it ended. The floating device projecting the scene dissolved into blue fragments with a wave of Arden's hand, flickering away like fireflies vanishing into the wind.
A chorus of disappointed murmurs rose up—some knights whispering that they'd wanted to see more, others still stunned into silence. But that was all we were getting.
That spell... it was something else.
At the request of a few higher-ranked knights—along with Lysandra, myself, and even the Emperor—Arden had used some kind of memory projection spell. A rare one, apparently. "MTV," Arden had called it. 'Memory Televisual Vision,' or some other, but whether that was a genuine spell name or just something he made up to sound cryptic and mysterious, I had no clue. Honestly, it sounded like something he named while half-asleep, or maybe while drunk. Maybe both.
The Emperor claimed it was to educate his knights by showing them high-level combat up close, which sounded reasonable enough. That was the official reason, anyway. But judging by the smug glint in Radames' eyes the whole time, I was quite sure he also just wanted to show off his connections. Only Sora had seen the battle before. She stood with her usual small smile, hands clasped in front of her like the world's politest audience member. Even then, I could tell she was just as awed as the rest of us. That kind of spectacle doesn't get old.
As for me… I was trying to stop my thoughts from collapsing in on themselves.
Because what we'd just witnessed hadn't been some staged illusion or reenacted dramatization. That had been Arden's memory. His actual memory. A real fight, shown exactly as he remembered it—and I had no reason to doubt that the clarity of it was anything less than accurate. The Demon—if that's even what he was anymore—was something out of a nightmare carved from obsidian and war. And Arden had fought him like it was nothing. Like it was personal. Like he was holding back.
Even now, images played behind my eyes without my permission. The shockwaves. The sky splitting like torn parchment. The blows that shattered rock and reshaped terrain.
I blinked and found myself staring again.
Arden adjusted his sunglasses, gold jewelry glinting as the light caught his wrist. He gave a single, simple nod in response to the flood of voices around him. Praise, reverence, awe—one knight even muttered something dangerously close to a love confession. Arden didn't bask in it. He didn't smile, didn't pose. Just stood there like it hadn't been his memory that had stolen the breath from a room full of elite soldiers.
Maybe he truly didn't care. Or maybe it just didn't impress him anymore.
I looked down at my own hands. Still clenched. Still tense. Watching that battle had left me feeling like a brittle stick caught in a storm—not broken, but bent enough to feel it. It wasn't shame, or fear, or even envy.
It was the feeling you get when you realize the mountain ahead of you isn't just tall—it has no visible peak. And still… You keep climbing.
Among the murmurs and low conversations that followed, my gaze wandered—just a little—to one of the knights near the Emperor.
I recognized him instantly.
He'd been standing next to Radames during our first audience, silent as a blade in its sheath but impossible to ignore. That same white-and-gold armor gleamed in the light like it was made for ceremony, not bloodshed. But the scar slicing from his brow to his cheek told a different story. His sword was long—far too long to be standard issue—and the sheath was etched with delicate, almost reverent carvings.
He had been watching the memory projection more intently than anyone else. But what caught me off guard was how he'd been watching Arden.
There was no hostility in his expression. In fact… if I wasn't mistaken, there'd been a slight blush on his cheekbones. Just a flicker of color. Gone as soon as it appeared. But I'd seen it before—in the throne room, during that first glance across the chamber. That same subtle shift, that same focused intensity.
What the hell did that mean?
He must've sensed me watching him, because his gaze suddenly shifted. Right at me.
I froze. Every instinct told me to run, or vanish, or become very interested in the nearest stone pillar. I chose the pillar. He didn't blink, didn't soften. Just stared, hard and steady, like I'd committed a crime by being in the same room.
And then his gaze moved—slowly, deliberately—to Lysandra, Sora, and even Lilith, whose illusion spell was good enough to pass for "weird human girl" rather than "probably a demon." But even as his eyes scanned them, he kept circling back to Arden. Almost like he couldn't not look at him.
And to my surprise, Arden met the gaze. Briefly. Just long enough for a quiet, respectful nod. But even that seemed to sour under the pressure of the knight's unrelenting stare. Arden looked away a moment later, ever so slightly adjusting his stance.
And maybe I imagined it, but I thought I saw a faint stiffness in Arden's posture afterward. Not discomfort, exactly… just awareness. Like even he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.
Then Radames clapped his hands together, slicing through the tension with a sharp, commanding sound. His voice followed, bright and sure:
"Well then. I trust that clarifies why Arden and his companions have my full support."
There it was—the real reason behind this whole spectacle. Not just for awe. Not just for show. We were technically at war now— The Slaechulan Kingdom had declared as much a few days ago. The capital was preparing. The people were anxious. The court was divided. And Radames, ever the strategist, had decided to kill several birds with a single memory.
A demonstration of what we were capable of. A training opportunity for his knights. And a message to the doubters: I don't make mistakes when I choose allies.
Arden responded to the compliment the same way he always did: a nod, nothing more.
Radames gestured lightly toward the white-armored knight. "Allow me to introduce Sir Heimer. You may also call him Heim, if he allows it. He's part of the royal guard, and a specialist in advanced sword doctrine. A man of few words, unless those words are orders."
Heimer didn't bow. He didn't even smile. Just turned his head a fraction, giving the slightest nod imaginable. As if basic greetings were beneath him but he'd indulge this one time out of respect for Radames. Maybe.
Radames tilted his chin toward the other knight—Artus, the one in identical armor, except he was currently sipping from a bottle like it was a wine tasting. "And that's Artus. Also part of royal guard. Fortunetly, he's less intense. Slightly."
Artus looked up from his drink, caught the attention, and raised the bottle in a lazy half-toast.
"Hey-ho," he muttered.
I wasn't sure whether to feel more relaxed or more nervous. Probably both.
Two royal knights. One looked like he wanted to flay me with his eyes. The other looked like he was trying to decide whether the liquor was worth staying conscious for.
And I had a growing suspicion that this wasn't the last time I'd have to deal with either of them.