Chapter 621 – Smoke Beneath the Banner
The evening air in Myrandor had been warm, gentle, and laced with the smell of cooked meat and distant music. Haruto's group had just returned from the guild dining hall, their silver badges catching the glow of the lantern-lit streets.
They were halfway to their assigned dormitory when it happened.
BOOM.
The street beneath their feet shuddered. A pillar of smoke rose into the sky from two blocks north. Windows rattled. A scream pierced the night. Then another.
Instinct took over immediately.
"North corner of the trade plaza," Haruto said, already moving. "Let's go."
They rushed through the alleyways and emerged onto a street now choked with dust. A small general goods shop had been blown apart—wood splinters embedded in walls, flames licking the debris. People ran in panic. A beastkin child cried beneath a broken fruit cart.
And from the shadows beyond the smoke—
A man emerged.
His face was twisted with scars and madness, a brand on his neck showing three intersecting triangles—the mark of Arveilan execution. He carried a crude, rune-packed explosive in one hand and a curved dagger in the other, blood already splattered across his front.
Another man came staggering behind him, laughing maniacally as he hurled a firebomb at a nearby carriage.
Guards arrived seconds later, forming a barrier with spears. Shouts echoed from rooftops.
"Everyone down!"
"Terrorists! Everyone clear the square!"
One of the retreating shopkeepers shouted toward the crowd, panic in her voice.
"They're from Arveila! They—They always send them! They use death row prisoners—psychopaths!"
Saki's eyes widened. "What…?"
The guards confirmed it seconds later as they closed in with grim efficiency.
"This is a known tactic," one barked. "Arveila's been secretly releasing condemned criminals—murderers, maniacs, sorcerers bound for execution. They call it 'indirect attrition.' Let them loose in neutral cities to cause fear and chaos."
Reina looked sick. "They weaponize lunatics…"
Riku's face darkened. "They didn't just throw us away… they've been doing this to civilians for a long time."
Another explosion shook the ground to the east—closer.
One of the rogue prisoners screamed something incomprehensible and lunged toward a fruit stall where a young family was trying to crawl to safety.
But he didn't make it.
A streak of black-and-blue light moved faster than the eye.
Haruto appeared in front of the family.
He didn't hesitate.
One punch.
Not to kill. Not yet. Just enough to shatter the man's wrist and knock the bomb from his hand. The force launched the terrorist backward into a wooden stall. He didn't get up.
The remaining attackers snarled and charged at once, blades drawn, magic runes glowing faintly beneath their skin.
But they were not ready for the others.
Saki kicked one in the throat mid-sprint, snapping his neck before he hit the ground.
Yui used wind pressure to deflect fire spells before they formed.
Kenta caught one attacker mid-air and slammed him head-first into the cobblestone.
Reina and Aoi moved together, trapping a flame-wielder in a barrier of steam and ice.
Riku calmly shot through a fleeing man's leg with a mana bolt and disabled his escape rune.
Fifteen seconds.
All hostiles neutralized.
The guild guards watched, stunned.
No one from Haruto's group had suffered a scratch.
But the horror of the moment lingered.
Yui knelt beside the first attacker and examined his brand. "Definitely Arveilan."
Kenta muttered, "So this is how Joffrey fights wars now. He doesn't need armies."
"He just opens the dungeons and points," Saki whispered.
Haruto looked toward the fire still rising from the broken shop.
His fists clenched.
"This isn't war," he said quietly. "It's cruelty disguised as strategy."
The guards came forward and bowed in thanks. One of them spoke with a grim face.
"We've seen this more often in recent months. You stopped it before it became a massacre."
Haruto didn't answer.
Because in his heart, something had shifted again.
This world wasn't just a battlefield.
It was a stage for monsters.
And some wore crowns.
The smoke had barely begun to settle. The broken shops still hissed with the last embers of the fire. Guards moved to secure the area, binding the surviving attackers in glowing manacles.
But then—
A sound cut through the street that didn't belong to the chaos of battle.
Coughing.
Wet. Violent. Deep.
A beastkin woman stumbled to her knees near the debris of the second blast. Her skin had taken on a sickly green hue. Sweat dripped from her fur-covered forehead. Her breath wheezed, shallow and ragged.
Another child—a fox-eared girl no older than ten—began coughing the same way. Then a vendor. Then two more.
The guards turned quickly. One of them shouted with alarm.
"Spore release! We've got symptoms!"
One of the older beastkin men watching from the edge clenched his fists, rage building in his voice.
"They've done it again," he growled. "Arveila's plague strategy. This is the eighteenth time they've released it on our people."
Saki stepped forward. "Eighteen—?!"
"They send disease sealed in enchanted powders," the man spat. "Magic-triggered. Traps that explode on contact. It spreads through breath. Weakens the lungs. Kills the elderly and children within days if untreated."
Reina went pale. "They just used it on civilians."
"It's not about killing quickly," the man added. "It's to break our cities. Drain our medicine. Cripple morale."
Kenta gritted his teeth. "Monsters…"
Aoi rushed forward, kneeling beside the beastkin child and placing her hands gently on the girl's chest.
A warm blue light began to glow from her palms.
"Don't worry," Aoi said softly. "I can fix this."
The coughing girl whimpered. "I-It hurts…"
Aoi's magic surged, flowing in a gentle wave through the child's lungs and bloodstream. Her fingers glowed with delicate threads of purifying mana, precise and focused.
Reina knelt beside her. "You know how to cure this?"
Aoi nodded. "It's a healing spell I memorized from the Book of Aten."
Riku blinked. "Wait… the original?"
"No," Aoi replied calmly, focusing on her spell. "Our school had the copied version—distributed by the Magic Association. They use it to teach optional courses in first aid and healing theory. Most people skipped it."
Yui frowned. "But you didn't."
Aoi smiled faintly. "I didn't have any natural talent in offensive spells… so I learned healing. I thought it might be useful someday."
Another glow pulsed from her fingers, and the child's breathing eased.
The green in her skin began to fade.
Then the mother. Then the older vendor. One by one, Aoi moved from patient to patient, casting the same spell with increasing speed and certainty.
Each time—it worked.
The plague wasn't a supervirus or some ancient curse.
It was a crude, cruel design—meant to spread fear, not survive competent healing.
Reina stood back, stunned. "They made a plague that can be cured by a high schooler…"
Saki scowled. "Because they knew most people couldn't. Or wouldn't."
Riku looked toward Haruto. "This isn't just war anymore."
Haruto said nothing.
He was watching Aoi as she moved to the last victim.
And for a moment, his expression softened.
Then it sharpened again—cutting, cold.
"They're not trying to win," he said. "They're trying to exhaust us."
Guildmaster Narina arrived not long after the flames had been extinguished.
Her longcoat whipped behind her as she stepped through the ash-streaked plaza, eyes scanning the scene with the sharp gaze of someone who had seen war before—and worse. Behind her followed two sub-commanders and a few medical staff with glowing canisters of neutralizing enchantments.
She stopped when she saw the pile of unconscious terrorists, the barely stabilized wounded civilians, and Haruto's group standing amid it all—unshaken.
Then she saw Aoi, kneeling beside a coughing elder, her hands glowing with pale blue light, expression calm and focused. The elder took a breath… then another… and then his breathing steadied. The green tinge faded from his face.
Narina turned to one of the healers. "She's stabilizing plague cases already?"
The healer nodded, astonished. "And better than half our staff. We didn't even brief her."
Narina approached slowly, stopping just a few feet from Aoi.
"You," she said plainly.
Aoi looked up, blinking in surprise. "Yes, Guildmaster?"
"You're a healer?"
"I've studied healing spells. I'm not certified—at least, not in this world."
"You just cleared plague symptoms in twelve victims without error."
"I had a good teacher," Aoi said quietly. "Sort of. I memorized some of it from a magic textbook. The Book of Aten—the version used in Earth's school system."
Narina raised an eyebrow, but didn't press. Instead, she looked toward the northeast district, where a tall tower stood with glowing wards circling the upper floors.
"That textbook might've just saved lives," Narina said. "We've set up a Quarantine Center in the eastern quarter. We've got more victims showing symptoms, but not enough healers or cleansing scrolls."
She looked at Aoi directly now. "You're not under any obligation. But if you're willing… I'd like you to go there. Work under our command. You'd be given priority clearance, protections, and pay. But more importantly—"
She nodded at the people still on the ground.
"—you'd be saving a lot of lives tonight."
Aoi didn't hesitate.
"I'll go."
Yui stepped forward immediately. "We'll go with her."
"No," Aoi said gently, shaking her head. "You all should rest. We still don't know how long we'll be here—and if something worse happens, we'll need you ready."
Kenta frowned. "You sure?"
"I'll be fine." Her voice was steady. "This is something I can do."
Narina gave a sharp nod. "You'll be escorted. I'll make sure you're not overworked. But this will be a long night."
Aoi smiled faintly and rose to her feet.
"I'm used to that."
As she was led toward the Quarantine Center, the street watched her go—not as a magician or warrior, but as something rarer in this world:
A gentle light.
A healer in a kingdom that only knew how to wound.
And Haruto, standing behind her, felt something shift again.
A memory.
A tether.
A resolve.
Because Aoi had never been the strongest.
But tonight—
She was exactly what this world needed.
The Quarantine Center was once a library.
Now, the bookshelves were gone—replaced with rows of cots and barrier wards glowing faintly across the floor. Candles and hovering orbs of light cast long, flickering shadows over pale faces. The air smelled of medicine, fear, and sweat. Coughs echoed through the room, shallow and weak.
But when Aoi stepped inside, escorted by two guild medics, the entire atmosphere shifted.
Her calm presence radiated like moonlight over still water—quiet, clean, and unwavering.
The head physician, an older elf named Maelis, rushed forward. "You're the one who stabilized the outbreak in District Nine?"
Aoi bowed slightly. "Yes. I was sent by Guildmaster Narina."
Maelis looked her over—barely more than a teenager by his standards—and opened his mouth, clearly about to object. Then he hesitated.
Because he could feel her mana.
Not overwhelming in force…
But steady. Balanced. Pure.
"…Very well," he said, stepping aside. "I won't get in your way. Just tell me what you need."
Aoi nodded and rolled up her sleeves. "I'll start with the worst cases first."
The guild staff watched at first with cautious interest, but that changed quickly.
With one hand extended and her other pressed gently to each patient's chest, she summoned a stream of blue-white light that pulsed in gentle rhythm.
The plague didn't resist.
It withered under her touch.
Within moments, the swelling vanished. The green hue faded. Breathing returned. Fever broke.
One by one, she moved through the beds.
A coughing wolfkin boy stopped wheezing. His mother broke into tears.
An older catkin woman gripped her hand and whispered thanks before falling asleep peacefully.
A soldier who had been marked for death the following morning sat up, blinking in disbelief.
There was no struggle.
There was no drama.
Just healing.
Effortless. Efficient. Gentle.
The only strain was in Aoi's own body, her mana pool gradually draining with each spell—but she rationed it well. Her training with light-element magic and Book of Aten principles had prepared her for this: maximum efficiency with minimum cost.
After two hours, she had cleared twenty-three patients.
After three, forty-one.
Maelis approached her with awe in his expression. "You… you could be one of the Sacred Circle healers in the capital. Or even higher."
Aoi smiled gently. "I'm just someone who studied a good book."
The head physician exhaled. "No. You're something this city has been begging for."
The final patient—a beastkin newborn—had just begun to wheeze when Aoi reached his side. With a whisper of light, the baby calmed. His tiny chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.
And then… it was done.
The plague had been completely purged from the Quarantine Center.
Narina arrived an hour later. She didn't speak immediately—only watched from the edge as Aoi washed her hands in a basin of clean water, her movements still graceful despite exhaustion.
"How many?" Narina asked Maelis.
"Fifty-three," he replied. "And not a single loss."
The Guildmaster crossed her arms, watching Aoi as she quietly helped a nurse adjust a blanket over a resting patient.
"That girl," Narina said softly, "just undid Arveila's terror campaign in one night."
She stepped forward.
"You've done more than I asked," she said to Aoi. "You didn't just help. You restored faith. You reminded people that magic isn't just a weapon."
Aoi bowed her head, smiling.
"I'm glad I could help."
And though she looked tired—her mana nearly depleted, her hands trembling faintly—there was a light in her eyes that hadn't been there before.
Because for the first time since coming to this world—
She had saved lives.
Chapter 622 – The Queen Who Woke Without Trumpets
The candles in the royal infirmary had nearly burned to the base.
It was late, well past midnight, and the halls of the eastern wing lay quiet beneath layers of silence and shadow. Guards had been ordered to patrol further out tonight. Celestina had made sure of that.
She pushed open the heavy door with care, carrying a silver tray with warm broth and a damp cloth. Her every movement was slow, habitual—part of a ritual she'd repeated for six years. Sit. Clean. Speak. Wait.
She no longer expected an answer.
But tonight, as she crossed the threshold and looked toward the bed, she froze.
Eyes.
The same pale-blue eyes she remembered from childhood—no longer glazed or unseeing, but clear. Awake. Alert.
Queen Almeda Draconis looked at her daughter and smiled weakly.
"Hello, Celes."
The tray slipped from Celestina's hands, clattering against the floor as broth splashed across the polished marble.
Her knees buckled. She caught herself just in time, hands trembling.
"M-Mother…?"
Her voice broke.
Almeda's lips moved with effort. Her voice was thin and breathy—but unmistakably hers.
"You've grown stronger… haven't you?"
Tears spilled down Celestina's face before she realized it. She rushed to the bedside, kneeling, clutching her mother's hand like a child begging a dream not to fade.
"I—I thought I lost you. I thought he—"
"I was never truly gone," Almeda whispered. "Not fully. But I couldn't wake… not while he watched me. Not while his aura poisoned the very walls of this palace."
Celestina wiped at her face with shaking fingers.
"I don't understand… how long—how long have you—?"
"Moments. Hours. I don't know. My body is weak… but I'm here now." Her gaze, though tired, still held sharpness. "But you must listen, Celes. He must not know. If Joffrey finds out I've awakened, he will do what he failed to finish six years ago."
Celestina swallowed hard, nodding. "I'll move you. I know a hidden room in the underlibrary. Only I and a few loyal servants use it."
"I'll need a different nurse," Almeda said. "Someone who can be trusted. No records. No names."
"I have someone," Celestina replied. "Rivka. She's been with me since I was twelve. She's already helped me smuggle documents from the Inner Hall."
Almeda closed her eyes, exhausted already. "Then go. But listen well, child… you must act carefully now. Every breath in this castle is counted. Every smile, every silence, is a game of blades."
Celestina leaned forward, her voice low.
"Then I need your counsel. About… the heroes."
Almeda opened her eyes again. "The summoned?"
Celestina nodded slowly. "One group escaped. I know where they are. The others… are collared. I hate it, Mother. But I don't know what to do. If I free them, Father will know. If I betray him outright, innocent people will die."
She hesitated.
"I've thought about disappearing. Faking my death. Leaving the game entirely."
Almeda's expression softened with deep sadness.
"I thought of the same once," she whispered. "Many years ago. But Joffrey has a long reach… and a longer memory. If you fake your death, he'll only turn his eyes to someone else. The maids. The orphans. The city. The boy you once gave a book to."
Celestina flinched.
Almeda reached for her hand.
"You have a flame in you, Celes. I saw it even when you were small. But that fire must not flicker away in exile. It must be guided. Directed. Turned inward—until it burns the very roots of his throne."
Celestina felt her throat tighten. "So you're saying… stay?"
"Stay," Almeda said. "Wear the mask a little longer. Feed him the illusion that you're still his pawn."
She closed her eyes once more.
"And when the time comes… strike so cleanly, he won't even know he was bleeding."
Celestina sat there for a long time, holding her mother's frail hand, heart caught between grief and resolve.
And when she finally left the room—after carefully moving Almeda to the hidden chamber and swearing the nurse Rivka to silence—she did not cry.
Not this time.
Because now she had a reason.
Not just to endure.
But to win.
The secret chamber was colder than the infirmary, but Queen Almeda now rested beneath heavy blankets, her breathing steady, her mind clearer than it had been in years.
Celestina had spent the night at her side, speaking only in whispers. No guards knew of the room. Only Rivka—the one maid whose loyalty had never once wavered.
But as dawn's light crept through the stained glass high above the palace corridors, Celestina returned to her public role.
The mask slipped on like silk.
She walked through the halls with poise, her bruises hidden with powder, her dress perfectly pressed, her expression composed. Servants bowed. Nobles nodded. Spies watched, and she let them.
Because she wanted them to.
Later that morning, she called a private council with four lesser lords whose influence still reached the military. They were cowards—soft-bellied men who flattered Joffrey in public and feared his wrath in private.
But cowards were useful.
"Rumors say the summoned children were collared," she said calmly, sipping tea as if discussing the weather.
"Surely just for ceremonial magic," one muttered nervously. "Not permanent…"
"They say one of them resisted," she continued. "A boy with red streaks in his hair."
All four went pale.
"That would be Kanzaki," another murmured. "The one they claimed was second strongest…"
"Father says they're under control," Celestina said lightly. "But if, by some chance, they are not… and one escapes again… tell me: what happens to your border cities?"
They didn't answer.
She leaned in, smiling faintly.
"I believe we should reinforce the western lines discreetly. Not openly. Just a few thousand guards on standby."
"You mean… behind the King's back?" the oldest noble whispered.
"I mean in service of the King's interest," Celestina corrected. "What he does not need to know cannot disappoint him."
They understood.
By the end of the meeting, three of the four had agreed. The fourth was silent, but did not object.
That evening, Celestina walked the garden alone.
Or appeared to.
In truth, she listened to the birds.
Specifically, to the tiny communication spell woven into a sparrow's shadow.
Rivka's voice, soft and quiet:
"Your mother is awake. No fever. She asked for fruit. No new symptoms."
Celestina smiled, ever so slightly.
Progress.
But peace never lasted long in the golden cage of Arveila.
Moments later, a shadow fell across the flowers. A palace knight approached with a stiff bow.
"Princess. His Majesty summons you to the throne room. At once."
Her smile vanished.
She nodded.
And followed.
The throne room doors opened with a low groan.
Inside, the King sat tall and radiant upon the dais—draped in white robes trimmed with gold, his golden scepter resting lazily against his leg.
Beside him stood Malrath, as ever—a blot of darkness in a world that tried to pretend it was divine.
But what made Celestina pause was not them.
It was the fifteen summoned children, lined up along the wall in silence.
Collared. Blank-eyed. Controlled.
Kanzaki among them.
Her stomach turned—but she didn't show it.
She stepped forward and curtsied gracefully.
"You summoned me, Father."
Joffrey smiled.
"Indeed. I was just speaking to Malrath about loyalty."
His eyes flicked to her—sharp, cold.
"And how effective it is when your pawns don't know they're being played."
Celestina held his gaze.
She didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Not yet.
But inside, her heart pounded once—and then stilled.
Because she knew.
This was a test.
And he wasn't sure if she'd passed.
Not yet.
The silence in the throne room broke like ice under pressure.
Joffrey's voice rang out, smooth and heavy like poisoned silk.
"Do you think I'm so stupid, Celestina, that I don't know your mother has awakened?"
The words struck like a hammer to the chest.
Celestina didn't move. She didn't flinch. But her breath caught for half a second.
He stood slowly, walking down the golden steps of the dais.
"I knew the moment her mind stirred," he continued. "The moment your eyes stopped looking quite so hollow. You've always been easy to read, daughter."
Malrath stood like a shadow at his side, saying nothing.
"I allowed this little game of yours," the King said, voice low and cutting. "Watched to see how far you'd go. Who you'd trust. How much you'd risk."
He stopped in front of her.
"And now, I know."
He turned toward the side doors of the throne room and raised one hand.
They opened.
And with them came horror.
Two royal knights dragged in a simple rolling bed. Upon it lay Queen Almeda—bound by enchanted cuffs, her pale skin bruised, a thin line of blood trailing from her lip. Her eyes were open but unfocused. Her chest rose and fell—she was alive, but barely.
Behind the bed staggered Rivka, blood trailing from her side, one arm limp and broken, her dress torn from a struggle.
"No…" Celestina whispered. Her hands trembled at her sides.
"Yes," Joffrey said. "You lied to your King. You defied the Crown. You broke the contract of your blood."
He turned, raising his voice now—not shouting, but so every word echoed.
"So here is your punishment."
He gestured, and one of the knights stepped forward and dropped something at Celestina's feet.
A dagger. Ceremonial. Ornate. Sharp enough to cut the air.
"You will kill your mother," Joffrey said calmly. "Here. Now. Before the throne."
Celestina's heart nearly stopped.
The dagger stared back at her like a question written in steel.
"If you do," the King said, "I'll pardon your treason. I'll name you heir once more. I'll even allow your little alliance games to continue—under supervision, of course."
He leaned in slightly.
"But if you don't… I'll kill her anyway. Then Rivka. Then every servant who ever looked you in the eye with sympathy."
He straightened again, voice rising with finality.
"And then I will take a new wife. She will bear me a new daughter. And your name will be stripped from history like dust swept off marble."
For a moment, the world was silent.
And then—
Almeda, barely conscious, opened her lips.
"Do it," she whispered.
Celestina staggered backward, horror choking her breath.
"No—Mother—no, I can't—"
Almeda's eyes were glassy with pain, but her voice was calm, firm.
"I'm already dead, Celes. He'll never stop. You know this."
Tears spilled from Celestina's eyes. Her hands shook. The dagger felt heavier than the sky.
"You can still change things," Almeda whispered. "But you have to live. Even if it means this."
The summoned heroes stood silently against the wall, eyes dulled by their collars, unable to react.
And Joffrey smiled.
"I'm waiting, daughter."
Chapter 623 – The Thorns of the Crown
The dagger trembled in her hand.
Cold. Heavy. Weighted with the impossible.
Celestina's heart pounded like war drums behind her ribs. Her eyes, wet with tears, flicked from the blade… to her mother's face… then to the throne where her father stood, tall and cruel and waiting.
"Kill her."
His words were not angry.
They were calm. Certain.
As if this moment had already played out in his mind a thousand times.
And perhaps it had.
She could see it now—
A future where she obeyed. Where she became the obedient, broken heir with blood on her hands and silence in her eyes.
Where her mother died, and Joffrey ruled forever.
But something inside her snapped.
Not quietly.
Not softly.
Not like a glass cracking.
It shattered.
Celestina's grip on the dagger firmed—not with surrender.
With resolve.
She didn't speak.
She didn't scream.
She just moved.
Lightning-quick, dress flaring behind her, her bare feet sliding across the polished marble as she charged forward—not toward her mother—
—but toward him.
Toward the King.
Toward the man who destroyed everything.
Her father's eyes widened—just slightly. Enough to know he hadn't predicted this.
The guards reacted late.
Celestina was already in the air, both hands on the dagger, her full weight behind it, aimed for his chest.
She drove it forward—
But it was no use.
Her blade hit a barrier.
A sound like cracking glass echoed across the room.
And then came the force.
Boom.
It hit her like a collapsing star.
Magic pressure—divine-tier, suffocating and absolute—exploded outward from Joffrey's body. Celestina was flung backward midair, crashing into the floor with a sickening crunch. The dagger clattered from her hand and skidded across the marble, far from reach.
Pain lanced through her side. She tasted blood.
Malrath stepped forward, his shadow stretching long, but Joffrey raised a hand to stop him.
"No. Let her crawl."
He walked forward, calm as ever, stepping over her fallen form.
"I wondered when you'd finally try that," he said. "Part of me had hoped it would be now. I do so love watching hope die in real time."
Celestina struggled to rise—her limbs trembling, her ribs screaming. Her vision spun.
He knelt beside her, grabbing her by the chin with gloved fingers slick with magic suppression.
"You thought you could touch me, girl? I stood beside gods while you still clutched dolls."
He threw her back to the ground like filth.
She coughed, trembling, barely conscious.
"And now," he said as he rose again, voice devoid of warmth, "you will still carry out your duty."
He snapped his fingers.
Two knights approached with new restraints.
"Bind her. Let her watch."
Malrath moved to Queen Almeda's side, black energy pooling in his palm.
Celestina could do nothing.
Her limbs were pinned.
Her vision dimmed.
And all she could hear was the sound of her mother whispering—
"…don't look away."
Celestina could barely see through the blur of blood and pain. Her vision swam, the world tilting with each ragged breath. Her wrists were bound. Her strength gone.
Malrath's hand hovered over Queen Almeda's chest, his fingers curled in a slow, deliberate gesture that summoned black runes to swirl around her ribcage. Death magic. Slow. Intimate. Cruel.
Joffrey watched with disinterest, as though this were no more important than pruning a garden.
And then—
everything stopped.
Because without warning, without fanfare, without any sense of power building in the air—
a voice rang out, calm and almost curious.
"Am I interrupting something?"
A ripple of unnatural silence tore through the throne room. All heads turned.
A pulse of magic shimmered in midair—quiet, clean, and controlled.
And from the heart of it, two figures appeared.
Not through a grand ritual.
Not through a summoned gate.
But as if the space itself agreed to let them through.
The first was a young man with black hair, wearing simple traveler's clothes, a long coat, and expressionless black eyes that calmly took in the scene.
The second was a woman with black hair and vivid blue eyes, dressed elegantly in modern attire—foreign, unfamiliar, and completely out of place in Arveila's ancient throne room.
She stepped forward first, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with mild irritation.
"So this is the royal palace, huh?" she said casually. "Not very welcoming."
The guards reached for their weapons instantly.
Joffrey's pressure flared.
"Who dares—"
But the man spoke, soft and clear.
"Don't."
One word.
And Joffrey's magic stopped.
Just stopped.
Like a song that forgot how to play.
Like the sun forgetting how to shine.
Even Malrath hesitated, his spell trembling in his hand.
Celestina blinked.
The pain was still there—but the air had shifted.
She could breathe again.
The young woman stepped up beside the man, completely unafraid of the king or the cursed shadow beside him.
"My name is Airi Tachibana," she said. "And I'm from another world. I think some of my distant relatives may have been brought here… probably without consent."
She glanced at the collared heroes along the wall.
"Looks like I was right."
Alex stood beside her, silent. His black eyes flicked across the room—past Joffrey, past Malrath, past the guards, to Celestina… and then to Almeda, still bound, still trembling.
His gaze narrowed.
"Is this how you treat the women of your kingdom?" he asked.
No one spoke.
Joffrey finally found his voice.
"You—"
"Don't," Alex said again.
A single syllable. Not loud. Not shouted. But somehow…
It crushed the next word in Joffrey's throat.
The king's magic began to surge again—but it flickered. For the first time in years, Joffrey felt something wrong in the room.
Something that didn't bow.
Didn't fear.
Didn't belong.
Something that was outside his world.
Malrath took a cautious step back.
Celestina, still bound, whispered through bloodied lips.
"…Who… are you?"
Airi smiled faintly.
"Friends of your missing classmates."
And Alex…
Alex didn't smile at all.
Because behind his eyes,
something ancient had already decided:
This kingdom had just made its last mistake.
The air was still.
No one moved.
Even the guards—armed, armored, trained killers—stood frozen under the strange pressure that now filled the throne room. It wasn't crushing like Joffrey's aura. It wasn't foul like Malrath's shadow.
It was simply… absolute.
Alex turned his gaze toward the line of summoned heroes.
The collars around their necks shimmered faintly with suppression magic—twisting, complex matrices of binding runes and soul-linked threads. A delicate, cruel system.
Alex stared at Kanzaki's collar for exactly one second.
And then—
Crack.
It shattered.
No chant. No gesture. No visible spell.
Just a subtle pulse of magic from Alex's thoughts alone—one mental formula, perfectly shaped and applied with surgical precision. The collar disintegrated like ash swept from glass.
Kanzaki gasped and collapsed to his knees, clutching his throat, eyes wide as if his mind had just been freed from a cage he never realized had walls.
The guards flinched.
Malrath's hand twitched.
Joffrey stepped forward, voice sharp with rising rage.
"What have you done?"
Alex didn't even look at him.
He raised a hand—not toward the king, but toward Queen Almeda, still limp and barely breathing on the wheeled bed.
A thread of golden light danced from his fingertips.
No incantation. No ritual. Just will.
In the blink of an eye, every injury disappeared.
The bruises faded. The internal bleeding reversed. The breath caught in her lungs released with ease. Her heartbeat—weak and shallow—stabilized, then strengthened.
Almeda's eyes snapped open. She breathed.
Celestina choked on a sob. "Mother…"
Alex turned to her.
Still calm. Still quiet.
With one flick of his hand, the restraints around Celestina's wrists cracked and fell to the ground.
"She's safe now," he said softly. "So are you."
Celestina could barely comprehend what she was seeing.
This boy—no, this man—had undone two impossible things in less than ten seconds.
A collar that no royal mage had ever broken.
And a death curse only whispered about in war.
Joffrey's face twisted into fury.
"You—who are you?!"
Alex finally turned to him.
Slowly. Calmly.
"I'm someone you should have never invited into your world."
Joffrey's fury ignited like a sun.
"You dare—" he roared, his voice no longer royal or controlled—just raw rage, laced with divine-tier mana.
A dozen binding chains of gold erupted from the floor, aimed at Alex's limbs and throat. Searing light magic, reinforced by blood pacts, meant to immobilize even a high-level archmage.
Alex didn't blink.
The chains disintegrated before they touched him—no flare, no explosion, no resistance. They simply ceased to exist, like their formulas had been rewritten at the moment of contact.
Joffrey's eyes widened. "What—?"
He thrust his hand forward.
Aetheral Judgment—a forbidden beam spell only accessible to those with divine heritage—gathered at his palm. The throne room blazed white as the blast roared forward like a lance of heaven itself.
It struck Alex directly.
The ground behind him exploded, marble turned to ash. The summoned heroes flinched, shielding their eyes. Celestina cried out.
But as the light faded—
Alex still stood.
Completely unharmed.
Not a burn.
Not a scratch.
Not a single hair out of place.
His coat hadn't even shifted.
"…That should have erased your body from existence," Joffrey whispered, taking a step back.
"I let it hit me," Alex said plainly. "To make a point."
Before Joffrey could speak again, Alex added:
"That was your strongest attack, wasn't it?"
The king's face went pale.
And then—suddenly—Malrath moved.
He didn't speak.
He didn't warn.
He simply turned and ran, black magic curling around him like a serpent trying to twist its way into a dimensional fold. A teleportation technique—ancient, abyssal.
He vanished in a blink.
Only to reappear—
Right back where he started.
Alex's finger was lifted, a single glowing rune floating in front of him like a sigil of judgment.
Malrath's eyes widened behind his veil of shadow. He tried again—this time twisting space itself with a spell of void displacement, a technique that ignored physical coordinates and targeted thought-location.
Again, he vanished.
Again, he returned.
Same place. Same position.
Alex hadn't moved.
The rune shimmered, rewriting space with a rule so precise and absolute that even dimensional folds couldn't escape it.
Celestina stared, whispering under her breath. "That's not space magic. That's…"
Alex looked calmly at Malrath, who stood frozen now, trembling—
terrified.
"You're not allowed to leave," Alex said simply.
Malrath's knees buckled.
Joffrey looked around the room—at his useless guards, his paralyzed mages, the broken collar at Kanzaki's feet, and his once-dead queen now sitting up and breathing.
And in that moment, for the first time in his entire reign—
Joffrey understood fear.
The throne room, once a place of blinding arrogance and unquestioned power, had fallen into an unnatural silence.
The air was thick—not with mana, not with heat, but with presence.
A pressure unlike anything this world had known.
Alex stepped forward.
Not with anger.
Not with haste.
But with a calm so terrifying it made the palace walls feel smaller. As though the very dimensions of the room bent around him.
He stopped at the foot of the golden steps leading to the throne.
And then he asked—
Quietly.
"…Were you the one who summoned the students from our world?"
The words weren't loud, but they reverberated, echoing in the bones of everyone present.
Joffrey, still standing, sneered. "I am the king. Of course I authorized the summoning—"
But Alex interrupted.
His voice did not rise. It deepened—a quiet thunder that made the guards step back without realizing.
"I didn't ask if you authorized it."
He took one more step.
"I asked… if it was you who did it. Who decided that innocent people would be stolen from their world and turned into tools."
Joffrey's mouth opened—
But no sound came out.
Alex's black eyes gleamed, the lights of the room dimming slightly around him.
"I count fifteen," he said. "Fifteen students. From a group of twenty-two."
He turned his head slowly, scanning the line of stunned, collared teens.
Kanzaki, still kneeling, looked up with wide, slowly clearing eyes. A faint gasp broke from another student as their collar cracked and fell.
"Seven are missing."
Alex's tone dropped lower now—no longer questioning. Just… weighing.
"Where are they?"
Joffrey opened his mouth again—trying to summon that royal pride, that false calm.
"They—fled," he said. "They escaped the palace. Fled to the Beastkin Continent. Traitors—"
"Wrong answer."
The words sliced through the king's defense like a guillotine.
Joffrey staggered back, for the first time visibly shaken.
Alex didn't blink.
"They fled. After what? After the collars? The torture?"
Airi stepped forward beside him, her voice cold.
"One of them is Tachibana Yui. My distant cousin. She's not here. So unless you want to add 'deception against the Tachibana family' to your crimes, I suggest you speak clearly."
Joffrey's lips trembled. He tried to pull authority around him like a cloak, but the fabric had already burned.
"They fled to the Beastkin Continent…" he repeated. "We tracked them. Sent mercenaries. But they disappeared into the interior. We assumed they were dead."
"You assumed," Alex repeated.
And then—for the first time since arriving—he smiled.
It wasn't warm. It wasn't kind.
It was the kind of smile a wolf gives when it finally smells blood beneath the snow.
"You don't even know if they're alive or dead, do you?"
The room was silent again.
Alex's eyes glowed faintly now—not with fire or light, but something else. Something older.
He turned away from the king, gaze returning to the students.
"I'll find them."
He didn't say if.
He didn't say try.
He said it like gravity. Like a promise that space itself would honor.
The throne room trembled beneath the weight of truths spoken and power unveiled.
Alex stood tall, the ruined collars crumbling like dry leaves behind him, the heroes slowly stirring from their mental fog. The truth was now out—seven missing, fifteen broken, one king trembling behind his crown.
But pride dies hard.
Joffrey's hand, trembling at his side, gripped a ring hidden beneath his robe. A black stone embedded in silver—ancient, cracked, and sealed in three languages of warning.
Malrath's eyes widened. "Y-Your Majesty, wait—"
But the king had already spoken the word.
"Ashkrael."
The throne room darkened.
Every candle, every enchanted gemlight, every ward flickered and died.
And from the cracked black ring surged something that should not exist—
A mass of forbidden magic, not made by gods or men.
A prison spell taken from the Age of War, meant to kill immortal dragons.
A death-curse that ate time, soul, and fate.
It rushed toward Alex like a tide of black knives.
Airi stepped back, shielding her eyes.
Celestina gasped.
And Alex… simply raised a single hand.
The magic hit him.
And dissolved.
Like smoke trying to pierce diamond.
Like fire trying to burn a concept.
It did nothing.
Joffrey's pupils shrank.
Alex didn't move, didn't look hurt, didn't even acknowledge the attack.
But now his voice changed.
No longer calm.
Just cold.
"You just tried to use a World-Devourer curse inside a palace full of children."
Joffrey, desperate and furious, turned away—not to flee this time.
To kill.
His hand flared with condensed light. A spear formed—one meant for Kanzaki. He would take a hostage. He would salvage power through fear, as he always had.
He raised the spear.
He aimed—
And then he froze.
Mid-motion. Mid-breath.
His expression twisted in rage, but it stopped there—held in place like a statue cursed by the gods.
Joffrey could see.
He could hear.
He could feel the seconds passing.
But he could not move.
Not a finger. Not a breath.
The entire throne room gasped.
Celestina felt the magic immediately. A complete time stasis. Not partial, not anchored to space, but singular—cast on a single target, flawlessly.
Airi's eyes widened. "You finished it already?"
Alex lowered his hand, eyes dark.
"I called it 'Time Stop.'"
He walked slowly toward the frozen king, who stood mid-attack, eyes wide in paralyzed horror.
"Time is like breath," Alex murmured. "It moves. It bends. But with enough control… it obeys."
He stopped right in front of Joffrey.
"You can see me, can't you?" he asked.
Joffrey couldn't answer.
But Alex knew he could hear.
"You were born into a throne you didn't deserve. Given power you didn't earn. And for years, you thought that made you untouchable."
Alex's voice became a whisper—louder than a scream in Joffrey's ears.
"But this world has changed."
He leaned in just slightly.
"I'm here now."
And Joffrey—trapped in frozen time—understood that the game was no longer his to play.
Alex stood in front of the paralyzed King of Arveila, his voice like a blade against glass.
And then—he turned his head slightly.
Toward the man trying to crawl away with shadow magic pooled around his feet.
Malrath.
The court sorcerer of death and void, who had remained still only because of fear.
Until now.
Malrath hissed under his breath, his fingers tracing runes faster than the eye could follow, forming a gate of cursed teleportation—this one carved in blood and lawless void, untethered to space or time.
Alex didn't even look at him directly.
He raised two fingers.
"Time Stop."
And Malrath froze.
Mid-cast.
Mid-thought.
Eyes wide with horror.
Mouth twisted in a soundless scream.
His runes fractured midair, frozen shards of black magic hovering like broken mirrors.
Now, both Joffrey and Malrath stood like grotesque statues—aware, breathing, but unable to act. Unable even to blink.
Alex turned to face them both fully, black coat swaying softly behind him.
"You'll stay like this for now," he said.
No rage. No wrath.
Just the sentence of a man beyond justice.
"I haven't decided what to do with you yet."
He glanced at Queen Almeda, who now sat upright in her wheeled bed, eyes filled with disbelief and silent tears. Celestina stood protectively beside her, still stunned—but no longer afraid.
"I'll return," Alex told them softly. "Soon."
Then he turned to Airi.
She nodded, already ready.
"I can feel it," she said. "Faint, but still present. It's Yui. South-southeast."
Alex raised his hand.
Space shimmered quietly.
And then the two of them—
vanished.
No sound.
No light.
Just an elegant folding of space following Yui's mana signature across the world.
The throne room remained frozen—literally.
And for the first time in the palace's long, gilded history,
the most powerful men in Arveila stood powerless.
Frozen in the moment their sins were witnessed.
The throne room was still—frozen in time, yet heavy with everything that had just occurred.
In the span of minutes, everything had changed.
The King and his shadow sorcerer stood motionless like cursed statues. Their twisted expressions, locked in helpless fury, were like portraits of fallen pride. Around them, the high ceilings echoed in a silence that was no longer the king's to command.
And into that silence came the soft, unsteady breath of Queen Almeda.
She sat upright now—no longer pale, no longer trembling.
Her skin was warm. Her posture was strong. Her hands, once too weak to lift a spoon, now gripped the blanket over her lap as if waking from a nightmare that lasted six years.
Celestina remained beside her, kneeling on the floor, her hands shaking—but this time with something else.
Not grief.
Hope.
"Mother," she whispered, pressing her forehead gently to her mother's hand. "You're really…"
"I'm here," Almeda said, her voice no longer frail. "I'm whole."
The magic Alex had used had not simply healed wounds. It had restored what time had taken. The wasting sickness. The internal decay. The damage of years sealed in silence—all of it undone in a breath.
And now, for the first time in years…
The Queen had returned.
Not far from them, the line of once-collared students began to stir.
The enchanted rings around their necks cracked and fell to the floor—one by one—like the final notes of a broken hymn.
Kanzaki stood first, his fingers slowly rising to his neck, feeling skin that hadn't been bare in weeks.
The fog in his mind cleared.
He looked at his hands.
He remembered who he was.
"…What just happened?" he whispered.
Reina fell to her knees, gasping as the pressure of control lifted. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks.
Saki clenched her fists. "I… I thought we were finished."
Yui wasn't here. Neither was Riku. Neither were the others.
But they were alive.
Celestina looked up at them, eyes meeting each one of theirs.
"I'm sorry," she said.
No excuse. No justification. Just a truth she had buried for too long.
"I should have done more. Sooner."
There was silence.
Then Kanzaki stepped forward, his eyes shadowed but focused.
"That man," he said quietly. "Was he one of you?"
Celestina shook her head. "No. He's beyond any of us."
"But he saved us."
"Yes."
Kanzaki stared at the frozen king.
"…Good."
He turned to the others.
"We're not tools anymore."
A murmur of agreement. Some too weak to speak, but all awake.
All free.
And in the center of the broken throne room, where arrogance once sat enthroned, only broken pride and quiet hope remained.
Chapter 624 – Reunion Beyond the Veil
The space between places folded in silence.
One moment, Alex and Airi were standing beneath the cold arches of Arveila's throne room.
The next—they stood in a dimly lit, quiet inn room, deep in the heart of the Beastkin Continent.
Wooden walls. Soft lantern light. A faint smell of herbal tea and travel dust.
And gathered inside—surrounding a table cluttered with maps, dried fruit, and barely touched food—were the people Alex had come for.
Kurosawa Haruto.
Fujimoto Saki.
Matsuda Kenta.
Yamamoto Reina.
Shiratori Aoi.
Okabe Riku.
And seated near the far side of the room, sharpening a short blade beside the window—
Tachibana Yui.
She froze the moment the air shifted behind her.
Her hand dropped the whetstone.
Her fingers reached for a spell glyph—
"Yui!"
Airi's voice broke through the air like sunlight on winter glass.
Yui turned.
Her eyes widened. Her mouth fell open in shock.
"Airi…? No way—"
But she didn't get the chance to finish.
Because Airi ran forward and hugged her, tightly, arms wrapping around her cousin's shoulders before words could interfere.
The others stood up at once—hands reaching for weapons, ready for combat—
Until they saw Alex.
The change was instant.
Not fear. Not hostility.
Just silence.
The kind of silence that knows power.
Haruto narrowed his eyes, watching every breath.
"…You're not from Arveila," he said slowly.
"No," Alex replied calmly.
"Then who the hell are you?"
Alex didn't answer immediately. His eyes swept across the room—examining their postures, their aura flow, their fatigue.
They were tired. Dirty. Alert.
But not broken.
Not like the others had been.
"You're the ones who escaped," Alex said.
Reina stepped forward, half-suspicious. "How do you know that?"
Alex finally met Haruto's gaze.
"I found the rest of your class," he said quietly. "Fifteen were still in Arveila. Most were collared. Broken."
Haruto's expression tightened. His jaw clenched.
"But not anymore," Alex added.
There was a pause.
Saki stared. "You broke the collars?"
"All of them," Airi said with pride. "And saved Celestina's mother. Oh—also froze the king and his shadow mage in time. They're probably still staring at the wall."
"…What?" Kenta muttered.
Reina just sat down again in shock.
Yui pulled back from Airi slightly, blue eyes wide. "You… saved them?"
"We did," Airi nodded. "Because we're not going to let this world chew up our friends and get away with it."
Haruto stared at Alex for a long moment.
"…Who are you?"
Alex answered softly.
"Someone who was too late once."
He looked around the room.
"But not this time."
The room remained quiet after Alex spoke. But the silence wasn't from disbelief—it was from realization.
Riku squinted at him, then slowly reached into his coat and pulled out an old smartphone they had managed to preserve with preservation runes and mana converters. With a few swipes, he opened a saved album of screenshots from forums and news archives back on Earth.
His fingers paused.
"…No way."
He turned the screen toward the others.
It was a blurry photo—snapped from a distance, during the aftermath of a divine confrontation. A shattered Greek temple. A cratered field. A blurred figure standing over a defeated Apollo, who lay bruised and unconscious amid golden light fragments.
The man standing over him had black hair.
Black eyes.
A long coat fluttering behind him.
The caption read:
"Unconfirmed: mysterious martial artist defeats Apollo with one punch???"
"—known only as Alex. Government has made no comment."
"This guy again? Hair's a mess but damn."
Kenta leaned forward, eyes widening. "You're that guy? The one who… who punched a god?!"
Saki slowly nodded, piecing it together. "Yeah. There were memes. And edits. And that one theory thread that said he wasn't human."
Reina blinked. "Wait. The one with the hair jokes? 'Someone give this overpowered man a haircut?'"
Alex gave no reaction.
Aoi leaned closer to Haruto and whispered, "His hair is kind of wild, though…"
Haruto rubbed his forehead.
"I don't care who he fought," he said finally. "If he freed our classmates… if he saved them… then that's enough for me."
But no one could unsee it now.
This wasn't just some powerful traveler.
This was Alex.
The man who had—according to internet rumors—punched Apollo into the dirt and walked away.
The atmosphere in the inn shifted again—this time with a quiet sense of finality.
Alex looked around at the group.
Haruto. Saki. Yui. Kenta. Reina. Aoi. Riku.
All present. All alive. All staring at him with varying shades of awe, uncertainty, and something else unspoken—trust, slowly forming.
"I've said what I came to say," Alex murmured. "You've all made it this far together. That matters."
He raised one hand. A gentle spiral of mana shimmered around his fingers—not chaotic, not forceful. Just… precise. Controlled.
"I'm taking you back."
Haruto stood, not moving to stop him, but still wary. "To the palace?"
"No," Alex said calmly. "To your classmates. To the ones I freed."
He turned to Airi.
"You ready?"
She nodded without hesitation.
Yui looked between them. "Wait—teleportation? Across the continent?"
Riku whistled softly. "We barely managed a glide stone jump that far with a triple circuit… and nearly blacked out."
Alex tapped his temple. "I don't use circuits. I just go."
Before anyone could reply, the space around them folded silently.
Not with light.
Not with sound.
Just displacement—perfect and immediate.
A heartbeat later, they reappeared in a wide, grassy field just outside the hidden city zone where the freed heroes had been moved under Beastkin protection.
The sky was blue. The air was warm. And from a short distance away came gasps, shouts, and sudden movement—
As fifteen students—once collared, now alert—looked up and saw seven familiar faces appear beside Alex and Airi in a shimmer of folded space.
"Haruto!"
"Kenta—!?"
"Saki?!"
The shout of reunion echoed across the grass like thunder over calm water.
Students rushed forward. Tears were shed. Hugs were exchanged. Laughter, disbelief, and raw emotion collided all at once.
Kanzaki stood back, eyes wide, until he saw Haruto walking forward.
The two locked eyes.
Neither spoke at first.
Then Kanzaki gave the faintest nod.
Haruto returned it.
And just like that, the class—once shattered—began to knit itself back together.
Celestina watched from under a shaded tree, her mother sitting beside her, regal and silent.
She didn't interrupt.
But her eyes found Alex across the field—and for the first time, she bowed her head slightly.
A gesture of gratitude. Of deference.
Because he had brought them back.
Because he had made the impossible… look easy.
The laughter and tears faded into quiet conversation. The once-separated students now sat in small groups under the sun, some catching up with stunned disbelief, others simply sitting in silence—trying to process the fact that they were whole again.
Fujimoto Saki wiped at her eyes and looked around.
"It still doesn't feel real."
"Because it isn't over," Haruto said beside her. "Not yet."
"But… at least we're together now," Reina added gently.
Nearby, Riku checked his old phone again, showing Reina a list of old group messages they'd left behind before being taken.
The screen glitched slightly—Earth's time still ticking forward, untouched.
And then came Alex's voice.
"We've stayed long enough."
Everyone looked up.
He stood in the center of the field, arms loosely crossed. His expression unreadable, but his tone was softer now—like someone who had finished a long walk.
"You were taken from your world without permission," he said. "Used. Hunted. Collared."
He looked at them all, meeting their eyes one by one.
"I undid what I could. And I'll keep dealing with the ones responsible."
Then he paused.
"But as for you—"
A swirl of mana began to form around him. A ring of calm, golden light, folding space in the shape of a return gate.
"—it's time you went home."
A beat of silence.
Then someone whispered, "…Home?"
"We can really go back?"
"Yes," Alex said.
The gate shimmered, growing stable.
"It'll return you to the point closest to your last memory. Time distortion will normalize—only a few days will have passed on Earth."
The students stood slowly. Some were stunned. Some were smiling. A few cried again.
Yui turned to Airi.
"You're coming too, right?"
But Airi shook her head gently.
"Not yet. I have things to finish here."
She looked at Alex with a faint smile.
"I made my choice a long time ago."
Alex nodded once.
One by one, the students stepped into the gate.
Saki. Kenta. Reina. Riku. Kanzaki.
Yui hesitated at the edge.
Haruto placed a hand on her shoulder. "Go."
She looked back at him. "You're not coming?"
Haruto looked up at the sky.
"…Not yet."
And finally, Yui stepped through.
The portal glowed brighter—
And in a flash of quiet brilliance—
They were gone.
Returned to their own world.
Returned to peace.
And for the first time since this nightmare began—
They were free.
The field was quiet now, save for the wind rustling through tall grass and the occasional murmur of reunited classmates sitting together for the first time since their world was ripped apart.
Alex stood with Airi beside him, gazing at the gathered group—twenty-two students, once scattered, now whole again.
Conversations wound down. Laughter faded. Even Haruto had gone quiet after finishing his talk with Kanzaki and the others.
They all turned as Alex raised his hand again.
"I know you have more questions," he said. "About this world. About the war. About what happens next."
He paused.
"But for now… your families have gone four days without hearing from you. That's too long."
Several eyes widened at once.
Saki's hand flew to her mouth. "Four days—?! My mom's going to freak out—"
"I was supposed to be home for my sister's graduation," Reina whispered in horror.
Kenta blinked. "Wait… time here moves the same as back home?"
Airi nodded. "Exactly the same. No distortion. Four days here is four days there."
Alex closed his fingers slowly, and the magic around him began to hum again—soft, deep, steady.
"I'm sending all of you back."
The wind stilled.
Even those who had tried to be strong—Kanzaki, Yui, Riku—looked stunned.
"Back… to Earth?" Aoi asked quietly.
Alex nodded. "You'll explain what happened. Where you were. What's real and what isn't. You don't have to tell everything—but you should tell enough. People deserve answers."
Haruto stepped forward, eyes serious.
"You're not coming with us?"
Alex offered a small smile.
"I'll return. But not yet."
He turned slightly, looking toward the horizon.
"There are still things here that need to be fixed. Things I haven't forgiven."
Then—he gestured.
And in an instant, the space around the students trembled.
Warmth wrapped around them. Their mana reacted instinctively. The air shimmered.
And just like that—
They were gone.
One breath later—
The group stood inside a familiar world.
Cold white tiles. Fluorescent lights. A school infirmary room.
Posters on the wall. A whirring fan. The faint smell of antiseptic.
Outside the window, the modern world hummed—cars passing, birds chirping, phones buzzing.
Earth.
Their school.
It was like waking from a dream—except they remembered everything.
A teacher ran in moments later, shouting in disbelief. "Where have you been?! You vanished for four days! Search teams—police—your families—!"
Yui turned to the others.
"…We're going to need a long explanation."
Meanwhile, back in the other world, Alex lowered his hand slowly.
He exhaled. The field was now empty, save for him, Airi, and the wind.
"That should ease their parents' minds," he murmured.
Airi looked toward him with a gentle smile. "You didn't have to do that."
"I did," Alex said. "Because they shouldn't have to carry trauma and silence at the same time."
He looked toward the distant palace, where time still stood still for two monsters.
"Now," he said quietly, "let's finish this world's story."
Chapter 625 – The Final Judgment Begins
The wind whispered through the palace corridors, though no one could feel it.
The air inside the throne room remained frozen—utterly still, as if reality itself were holding its breath.
Joffrey stood motionless at the center, locked in a timeless prison of his own making.
Malrath remained several steps behind him, paralyzed mid-escape, face twisted in a wordless scream.
The royal guards, servants, and magicians had long since fled. No one dared stay near the throne room after what had transpired.
Only two remained.
Celestina knelt beside her mother, Queen Almeda, seated comfortably in a high-backed chair near the edge of the chamber. They had waited quietly, watching the unmoving king with haunted calm.
Until—
Space folded.
No sound.
No flare of light.
Just a subtle pop, like the world exhaling, and Alex and Airi stepped back into the throne room.
They had returned.
Celestina stood immediately. Her heart surged in her chest.
"You're back," she whispered.
Alex nodded once. "It's done. The students have been returned to Earth."
Queen Almeda's eyes widened, her hand lifting slowly to cover her mouth.
"All of them?" Celestina asked.
"All twenty-two," Airi said. "They're safe."
Almeda bowed her head deeply. "Then... thank you. I don't know what word could possibly—"
"You don't need to thank me," Alex said quietly. "You helped them. You tried."
He turned then—toward the center of the throne room, where the King of Arveila remained trapped in Time Stop, locked at the moment before his final mistake.
Malrath, too, remained bound. The death mage's magic was frozen mid-escape, strands of dark void magic still hovering in the air like broken chains.
Alex walked forward slowly.
"Is now the time?" Airi asked beside him.
"Yes."
He raised one hand.
A pulse of magic—sharp, clean, precise—rippled outward from his palm.
And time resumed.
Joffrey stumbled forward, the spear of light in his hand crumbling as the spell collapsed. His mouth moved, eyes wide—
Malrath fell to his knees with a choking gasp, the backlash of failed escape magic wrecking his lungs.
Before either could react further, Alex's presence filled the room again.
Not through aura.
Not through shouting.
But with the kind of stillness that only predators had before the final strike.
Joffrey raised his head.
"…What did you do?"
Alex stared at him.
"I gave your victims a future."
He took one step closer.
"And now I'll give you what you gave no one else."
Joffrey opened his mouth—
But this time, he couldn't speak.
Not because of magic.
But because he knew.
This time…
There would be no crown to hide behind.
Joffrey Draconis, King of Arveila, stood at the foot of his shattered throne.
No guards flanked him. No nobles surrounded him in counsel.
No crown weighed on his brow.
Only the presence of a single man—
Alex, who had stood calmly through gods, death curses, and the screams of stolen futures.
"I don't recognize your authority," Joffrey spat suddenly, voice trying to rise in defiance. "You think you can come into my world and play god? You think—"
"I don't need to be a god," Alex interrupted.
His tone wasn't loud.
But it crushed Joffrey's words before they left his throat.
"I don't need a title. Or a seat. Or a name carved in stone."
He stepped closer. One step at a time. Deliberate. Absolute.
"I was summoned here through someone else's crime.
You took children from their homes. Collared them. Broke their minds.
Tried to rewrite their souls."
Each word landed like a hammer on iron.
"You used forbidden magic to enslave them.
You used plague warfare against civilians.
You tried to kill your own queen.
And you would have killed your daughter."
Joffrey tried to speak again, but nothing came.
His lips trembled. His fists clenched.
But he saw the eyes.
And in them—
He saw the end.
Alex stopped in front of him.
"You're not a king," he said.
"You're a tyrant wearing robes that no longer fit."
He turned slightly, letting his voice carry across the room.
"Let it be known, for all who remain in Arveila, and all the nations beyond:
Joffrey Draconis is hereby removed from power.
Not by blade. Not by war.
But by the judgment of one who sees him for what he truly is—
a man too small to bear the weight of a kingdom."
The air around Alex shimmered—not in heat, but in clarity.
The throne cracked behind Joffrey.
A fine fracture split the base down the center as if the palace itself no longer recognized him.
Alex lifted a single finger—
And Joffrey's legs gave out.
The magic that had sustained his strength was severed like threads.
He collapsed to his knees.
"I won't kill you," Alex said coldly. "Not yet."
He looked to Queen Almeda.
"Because justice belongs to the people you wronged. To the queen you tried to silence. To the daughter you tried to break."
He turned to Celestina, who stood frozen in place, eyes trembling, breath caught.
Alex held her gaze.
"His fate… is yours to decide."
Malrath watched it all unfold from his knees—watched the proud king brought low, watched the weight of a world fall into the hands of a boy with black eyes and no crown.
And then…
Those eyes turned to him.
Malrath froze.
His lungs shuddered. His body trembled. Not from magic—but from the absence of it.
The runes etched beneath his skin, once constantly whispering power into his veins, were silent.
The voices of the dark—those he had bargained with in secret temples and grave-choked valleys—were gone.
Alex walked toward him slowly.
No threat in his posture. No malice.
Only certainty.
"You stood by while he enslaved children," Alex said. "Helped him break minds. Carried out curses meant to destroy the soul."
Malrath opened his mouth to speak, to beg, to offer secrets.
But he couldn't move.
Not because of magic.
But because his legs no longer obeyed him.
His bones ached like old, worn stone.
His heart fluttered erratically—no longer reinforced by the alchemy of undeath.
Alex reached down.
With two fingers, he touched Malrath's chest.
A pulse of silver light passed through the old mage like a clean wind through dust.
And then—
Nothing.
No more spells.
No more glyphs.
No more tether to the void.
Malrath gasped, suddenly aware of his own frailty.
His back hunched. His skin thinned. His fingers trembled as the years he had stolen returned all at once.
He looked up at Alex—eyes wide in horror, breath ragged.
"I… I can't feel it…"
Alex looked down at him.
"I know."
"You took my… magic—"
"No. I took what you never earned."
Malrath collapsed forward, wheezing. His cloak, once infused with shadows, now hung heavy and meaningless over a weak, aging frame.
He wasn't a grand mage anymore.
He wasn't a threat.
He was just an old man with too many sins and no more power to run from them.
And now—like Joffrey—he would face judgment as a man, not a monster.
Alex turned away.
Behind him, the once-mighty pair of Arveila's dark rulers now knelt in silence.
Their magic gone.
Their pride shattered.
Their futures… no longer their own to decide.
The room was silent again—but not the silence of terror.
It was the silence that came after terror had passed.
When the chains had fallen, and all that remained was choice.
Celestina stood still.
In front of her, Joffrey, her father, knelt—stripped of divine magic, stripped of status, stripped of fearsome authority.
Beside him, Malrath, the shadow behind the throne, wheezed as time caught up with his stolen years.
Once, they had ruled the continent with curses, fear, and flames.
Now, they couldn't even stand.
Queen Almeda sat nearby, watching with a gaze that burned deep. But she said nothing.
This was Celestina's moment.
And Alex had made it clear: the judgment was hers.
Celestina's hand trembled—not from fear. But from the weight of what came next.
She stepped forward.
"The world will know," she said softly, yet the room seemed to hold its breath. "That Arveila's tyrants have fallen—not by war, but by truth."
Her voice rose, calm and controlled.
"My father ruled with fear. With conquest. With silence."
She glanced to Alex.
"But fear does not last when the power behind it dies."
She turned back to the two fallen figures.
"You are no longer gods. No longer kings. Just men who caused too much suffering."
She looked around the hall, toward the stunned staff who had dared return, toward the shaking royal clerks at the edge of the corridor, and toward the magical transmission orb near the dais—still glowing faintly, still active.
She lifted her hand.
"Send word to the world."
One of the aides flinched. "P-Princess?"
Celestina's eyes hardened. "To every nation. Every race. Every village and king who suffered under this regime—humans, demons, beastkin, vampires, elves. Every parent whose child was taken. Every city that bent the knee."
The orb shimmered.
"Tell them: the tyrants are no longer protected. Their time has ended. The judgment will belong to those they wronged."
Alex said nothing.
He simply watched as the kingdom's soul began to shift.
Celestina's voice dropped lower—this time, not for show, but for her father.
"Let the world come. Let the leaders of the races you conquered speak. Let the broken nations rise. I won't stop them."
She looked at the collapsing illusion of Arveila, the once-mighty empire built on control.
"This kingdom will crumble," she said. "Let it. It was never mine to save."
She turned away.
"I'll build something new from the ashes. But not with you."