The storm inside the Grand Magic Zone began to calm.
Thunder that once shook the jagged cliffs now rolled in distant, tired murmurs. The air, thick with electric mana, thinned just enough for a human to breathe again. And at the center of a torn, rocky plateau stood Lencar—quiet, unmoving, his breath controlled, his gaze lowered to the trembling earth beneath him.
Fifteen minutes had passed.
Fifteen minutes since he had devoured Fuegoleon Vermillion's grimoire.
Fifteen minutes since that blazing torrent of noble fire mana collided with the Replica system in his body.
Fifteen minutes since his mana broke the final limit and crossed into Arcane Stage 1.
His heartbeat had changed.
His mana circulation had changed.
His senses, once sharp, were now frighteningly clear.
He could hear the wind cutting through broken spires miles away.
He could sense the leftover mana signature of Asta, Noelle, and Leopold returning to the capital from a distance he could not perceive before.
Arcane Stage 1 was different.
It wasn't strength.
It wasn't speed.
It wasn't magic output.
It was awareness.
As if the world, once fogged and muffled, had suddenly turned transparent.
Lencar lifted his head.
Mist curled loosely around his legs, responding instinctively to his mana even though he hadn't commanded it.
"…Stabilized."
The word was spoken softly, but it didn't drift away on the wind—it cut through it, perfectly clear.
He opened his grimoire.
The pages fluttered like a living creature, stopping on the newly highlighted one. Crimson-gold flames danced along the edges where Fuegoleon's spells had etched themselves into the Replica script. Not mutated. Not warped. Not enhanced.
Perfectly copied.
He closed it gently.
There was no satisfaction on his face.
No rush of triumph.
No outward emotion.
Just a calm, accepting realization.
"I can resume."
Because the Royal Capital had not stopped burning during these fifteen minutes.
And there was still more to do.
Lencar drew a single sigil in the air—not grand, not glowing, but small and efficient. A fold of mist spiraled into existence before him.
He stepped through it.
The Grand Magic Zone vanished behind him.
The Royal Capital welcomed him back with ruin.
The capital was not quiet.
Even though the main battle ended, the lingering aftershocks of necromancer magic pulsed faintly through broken stone, cracked windows, and collapsed rooftops. Smoke climbed the sky like black vines. Faint groans of injured citizens echoed between empty streets.
And everywhere—everywhere—were unconscious mages.
Knights who had exhausted themselves fighting undead.
Guards who collapsed after using more mana than their bodies could handle.
Civilians with minor magical talent who fainted from fear-driven spellcasting.
Nobles who had been overwhelmed by spatial distortions or shockwaves.
Dozens of them.
More than dozens.
He stepped into a courtyard nearest to the first plaza, where four unconscious Royal Knights lay slumped beside fountain rubble, their grimoires open and flickering weakly beside their hands.
Lencar walked toward them quietly.
Not hurried.
Not hesitant.
Just… measured.
He stopped beside the first knight.
A woman with a cracked helmet, blood on her sleeve, and a grimoire dimmed by mana depletion.
He knelt.
Placed one hand above her chest—not touching, only feeling.
Weak pulse.
Weak mana.
Stable.
They would live.
He drew his grimoire. Its pages turned on their own, stopping on a blank page with shifting ink—Absolute Replication awaiting command.
Lencar's hand lowered onto the woman's grimoire.
The contact was gentle.
The effect was not.
A faint whirl of silver-black mana spiraled from his palm, wrapping her grimoire in a thin cocoon of Replica magic. The book trembled once—
And vanished.
Not shattered.
Not erased.
Just… devoured.
Absorbed into his system.
Information flowed instantly.
Wind-enhancement spells.
Aerodynamic slicing spells.
A mobility technique that let her pivot mid-air.
A long-range slicing current.
All of it settled into Lencar's core, organizing itself neatly into a new internal page.
He lowered his hand.
Then, without hesitation, he reversed the flow.
Reverse Replication traced the exact magical structure he had absorbed. A pulse of mana glowed faintly in his palm—and her grimoire reappeared.
Perfectly intact.
Perfectly identical.
Perfectly placed beside her fingers, as if it had never left.
He rose without a word.
The process took… three seconds.
He moved to the next unconscious mage.
A man with earth magic.
His grimoire lay open on the ground, pages torn, mana flickering like a dying candle. Lencar placed two fingers on it.
Absolute Replication activated again.
The grimoire vanished into a swirl of Replica mana—absorbed in an instant.
Earth-density spells.
Stone-hardening spells.
Soil-binding techniques used by Royal Guard units.
A self-defense barrier.
He reconstructed it.
Placed it back beside the man's hand.
Moved on.
Again.
And again.
And again.
No one awoke.
No one noticed.
No one felt a single thing.
Lencar was silent the entire time.
His footsteps made no noise.
His breathing was even.
His presence was thin as dust.
He continued through the capital like a shadow drifting through broken streets. Every unconscious mage he passed received the same silent treatment:
Devour.
Absorb.
Recreate.
Return.
Even the rhythm of his movements was consistent—as if he'd done this a thousand times before.
The further he went, the worse the destruction became.
A section of the noble district had collapsed entirely, with stone pillars crushed under the weight of spatial magic distortions. A deep gash tore through the street—an unnatural wound created when Rades' undead clashed with Leopold's fire.
Sparks still danced faintly across broken bricks.
Seven mages lay unconscious in that area.
Lencar approached them quietly.
The first was a noble girl with water magic.
Her grimoire floated beside her, half-soaked in the water overflowing from a shattered pipe.
Absolute Replication pulled it into his core.
Water-shield spells.
Hydro-lance spells.
A purification spell used by noble houses.
A healing acceleration spell—not full healing, but a buff.
Reverse Replication returned it, completely dry.
He moved on.
A large man next.
Earth again, but heavier.
More brute strength than technique.
Devoured.
Returned.
Next—
A defensive-magic specialist, probably a Royal Guard captain ranked officer.
Their grimoire contained layered barrier spells, reflective armor spells, and mana-hardening techniques used in formations.
Lencar paused for a single moment as the information settled.
"…Useful."
His voice was soft and nearly lost in the air.
He recreated the grimoire and stood.
Another mage.
Then another.
Then another.
Eight minutes passed.
Eight minutes of silent harvesting.
Eight minutes of accumulated magical sequences weaving themselves into Lencar's Replica system—expanding it, deepening it, sharpening it.
The sky rumbled faintly.
But not from thunder.
From mana pressure.
His.
Even with perfect control, even with quiet footsteps, even with Arcane discipline—his body still leaked traces of new spells absorbing into his core.
A normal mage would collapse from this.
A captain might stagger.
Even a noble prodigy would feel overwhelmed.
Lencar merely slowed his breathing.
Stabilized again.
And continued.
He sensed the stronger mana before he saw the man.
Half-buried under collapsed stone, lying in a crater formed by spatial backlash, was a mage whose presence still pulsed with residual strength.
Not quite captain-level.
But close.
Vice-captain, most likely.
His grimoire was cracked open beneath rubble, its cover scorched, pages twitching with unstable mana.
Lencar stepped beside him.
He did not speak.
He did not hesitate.
He placed his hand over the vice-captain's grimoire—carefully navigating the broken stone so he didn't disturb the man's crushed leg.
Absolute Replication activated.
And Lencar's body tensed—just slightly—as the spells hit him.
High-level flame binding techniques.
Explosive fire magic used for crowd control.
A personal "Flame Gate" teleportation spell.
A mana-charging technique that multiplied fire spells after brief compression.
Not Fuegoleon's level.
But close enough to require reinforced absorption.
He breathed steadily, stabilizing the rush.
Then reclaimed the grimoire from his Replica core.
He used Reverse Replication to reconstruct it, repairing even the torn cover.
He placed it beside the unconscious vice-captain, positioning it exactly as he found it.
Then turned away.
He moved deeper.
Through broken boulevards.
Through shattered noble manors.
Through sections of the capital where undead dust still floated like ash.
Every unconscious mage he found—every single one—received the same treatment.
Devoured.
Copied.
Reconstructed.
Silently returned.
His pace was calm.
His footsteps as light as breath.
The only thing that changed was the weight of spells gathering in his Replica system—growing denser, sharper, more intricate.
He wasn't doing this for power.
He wasn't doing this for satisfaction.
He wasn't doing this for cruelty or dominance or ego.
He was doing it because he could.
Because it ensured he was ready for whatever came next.
Because the capital was vulnerable.
Because enemies were moving.
Because this arc wasn't over.
And because shadows always fill the spaces left behind by chaos.
He reached the burnt courtyard where even the stone glowed faintly from residual heat.
Six more unconscious mages lay there.
He approached the first one—
His hand hovered—
Absolute Replication began again.
The night deepened.
The capital remained unaware.
Lencar continued.
Quiet.
Efficient.
Untouched by any eye.