After Kaelan leaves for the meeting, Ariel remains behind in the frozen north.
Endless snow stretches in every direction, yet at the heart of the white wasteland blooms a rose garden.
Scarlet, crimson, pale gold, and deep violet roses grow unhindered by the cold, their petals dusted with frost that never melts. This is the unique landscape formed after Ariel advances to the Great Wizard realm. Snow falls endlessly beyond the garden's boundary, but within it, warmth and vitality persist, as if winter itself bows before her presence.
Ariel sits at the centre of the roses, legs folded, her posture relaxed and unguarded.
She is comprehending the Path of Beauty.
This is not a shallow pursuit of appearance. Beauty, at its peak, is a law that governs attraction, harmony, reverence, and instinct. When she completes this path, she will not merely be beautiful to humans or demons. She will be beautiful to insects, beasts, spirits, concepts—and even to the World Will itself. Beauty that compels attention without command. Beauty that softens hostility before thought can form.
Her breathing grows slow.
Petals tremble as her consciousness sinks deeper.
Her senses extend outward, not by intention, but as a natural consequence of her attunement. The rule network of the world becomes faintly visible to her—threads of authority, law, and causality interwoven across existence.
Then she feels it.
A fluctuation.
Her eyes open.
She turns her gaze toward the southwest, toward the heart of the battlefield.
At first, she dismisses it. With more than a dozen third-stage transcendents active, fluctuations in the rule network are constant. Someone is always casting a large-scale spell, overwriting local rules, or enforcing a domain. If it is an enemy move, Great Wizards of the demon race stationed at the frontline will counter it.
She closes her eyes again—
Then pauses.
Declan.
Ariel's expression sharpens.
Her soul sense spreads instantly, slicing across distance, snow, and blood-soaked land. The moment her perception reaches the frontline, her heart sinks.
The rules there are being overwritten.
Not violently. Not explosively.
Subtly.
But overwhelmingly.
This is not a clash of spells. This is a forced rewrite, layered gently yet relentlessly, pressing down on every living being in the area. It feels like suffocation. Like the world itself deciding something no longer belongs.
Ariel attempts to interfere.
Her authority surges outward, trying to halt the spread, to stabilise the local rule network.
She fails.
The suppression resists her touch with cold indifference.
Her eyes widen.
She rises in a single motion and soars into the sky, abandoning the rose garden behind her. Snow explodes beneath her ascent as she heads toward the battlefield at full speed.
Halfway there, the rules quake.
The overwrite accelerates.
A third-stage presence collapses.
She feels it clearly now.
Maran.
A Snow Leopard. A Great Wizard.
His aura fades like extinguished starlight.
The moment his presence vanishes, the rule overwrite surges forward, no longer restrained. Black mist seeps out from beneath the snow, rolling across the battlefield like a living tide.
Within it, chaos erupts.
Soldiers scream.
Demons, wizards, and martial artists alike lose themselves. Eyes turn vacant. Blades rise without reason. Friends slaughter friends as madness spreads unchecked. Blood soaks the snow, turning it black-red under the mist.
Other Great Wizards of the demon race rush in, their auras flaring as they attempt to intervene, but the corruption spreads faster than coordination.
Ariel ignores them.
She searches for only one presence.
Declan.
She finds him near the edge of the black mist, small compared to the devastation around him, yet still fighting. His eyes are clear. His movements are sharp. He resists the madness through sheer will, cutting his way free while retreating step by step.
But he is surrounded.
Ariel's heart clenches.
She raises her hand.
An enormous energy palm, woven from authority and emotion, descends from the sky and plunges into the black mist. It closes around Declan with perfect precision and lifts him out in a single, fluid motion.
The mist recoils as if burned.
Declan stiffens, ready to activate his father's power in him—
Then sees her.
"Mother."
His voice trembles.
Ariel draws him close, her arm wrapping around him protectively as she floats above the battlefield. Her gaze hardens as she looks back toward the spreading corruption.
The black mist continues to swell, swallowing snow, corpses, and shattered terrain alike, until half of the frozen wasteland is sealed beneath a vast, oppressive dome.
Then Kaelan arrives.
He comes with the human Great Wizards, descending from the sky like a silent tide. From above, the scale of it becomes unmistakable—at the centre of the wasteland, the black mist has formed a hemispherical shroud, dense and absolute, occupying nearly half the battlefield.
Kaelan's eyes sweep the field.
He finds the gathered demon Great Wizards, their auras tense and flaring, and the Twilight Race hovering at a distance, wary and alert. His gaze moves again—
Ariel.
Declan.
Relief passes through him like a quiet exhale, though nothing changes on his face.
He shifts position and moves to stand beside Issac and Nyra, who are already at the forefront, their presence anchoring the sky above the mist.
Nyra speaks first, her voice calm but edged with irritation.
"What game is Nyxarin playing now?"
Behind them, Great Wizards and members of the Twilight Race unleash probing attacks. Spells of flame, ice, lightning, shadow, and light crash into the black mist from every angle.
They vanish without a ripple.
The mist swallows everything.
Kaelan spreads his soul sense.
It pierces the outer layers effortlessly, passing through madness, death residue, and warped causality. Deeper within, he senses it—foreign laws, buried carefully, layered beneath the surface. They are concealed well enough to fool most, but not enough to escape him.
The structure becomes clear.
An array.
He says nothing about what else he perceives.
Issac steps forward. Light condenses in his palm, compressing into a flawless spear, its brilliance sharp enough to hurt the eyes. He hurls it without hesitation.
The spear strikes the black mist.
For an instant, it cuts cleanly through—
Then splits in two.
Both halves are extinguished, erased as if they never existed.
Kaelan's eyebrow lifts slightly.
Not in surprise, but in interest.
Nyra moves at the same moment as Issac. Light bends, folds, and descends in a coordinated strike, woven with authority and precision. Issac attacks again, their powers overlapping.
The result is the same.
Every attack is severed, devoured, or dispersed before it can penetrate.
They try again.
And again.
The outcome does not change.
Kaelan watches closely now.
And finally, he sees it.
Something within the fog shifts each time an attack arrives—something ancient, sharp, and deliberate. The interception is not random. It is being blocked.
He does not name it.
They stop.
Issac and Nyra exchange a glance, silent understanding passing between them. Continuing like this will accomplish nothing.
Nyra turns, her voice carrying across the sky.
"Third-stage transcendents. Enter the black mist and investigate."
A pause follows.
Reluctance ripples through the gathered forces.
Some hesitate out of fear. Others move because of loyalty. A few step forward with cold resolve, seeing the black mist as a challenge, or fueled by hatred toward the Night Dynasty and the martial artists who brought this catastrophe.
One by one, third-stage figures descend.
They pass into the black mist and vanish from sight.
Above it all, Kaelan, Nyra, and Issac remain suspended in the sky, watching in silence, waiting for the first sign of what lies within.
Kaelan's gaze drifts downward and finds Declan standing beside Ariel, clearly preparing to follow her into the array.
He sends a voice transmission.
Go. Return home.
Declan's reply comes immediately, tinged with confusion and worry.
Father? But Mother—
You are not needed here, Kaelan interrupts calmly. And you may become a burden. Leave this place.
There is a pause, heavy and reluctant, but Kaelan does not wait for a response. He turns back toward the black mist, his attention fully returning to the array.
Nyra breaks the silence.
"What should we do?"
Issac exhales slowly.
"What can we do other than wait for them to come out—or destroy the array?"
Kaelan's eyes narrow slightly as he studies the mist.
"Let me see if I can find a weak point in the array."
They nod.
Before Kaelan descends, Issac frowns, a thought clearly troubling him.
"Why didn't my sister come? She should be here."
Kaelan answers evenly,
"Isla is breaking through to the fourth stage. She's in the Inner Void."
Issac and Nyra turn to him at the same time, shock plain on their faces.
"What?" they say together.
"She's in the process of advancing to Stage Four," Kaelan repeats.
Both of them fall silent for a moment.
Nyra exhales softly.
"Among the four of us… Isla was always the most talented."
Issac nods, his expression darkening.
"And Nyxarin was never able to accept that."
Kaelan does not respond. He has no intention of stepping into their family entanglements.
He descends from the sky and lands on the snow-covered ground beneath the black mist. The cold does not touch him. The chaos of the battlefield fades from his awareness as he sits down calmly.
With the nine swords involved, brute force will not work. He knows that clearly.
So he chooses another path.
Right here, beneath the array, Kaelan begins constructing his third and final path.
Return to Origin.
This is the last piece he needs. Once it is complete, he will be able to build his inner field.