Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters in the story are consenting adults over 18 years of age.
Chapter 1
Pov ???
I stand here, looking at the stars and the silent world around me. Beside me rests an old bottle of wine I somehow managed to acquire—one of the few luxuries that ever make their way into this place.
How long has it been since I woke up here?
A hundred years? A thousand?
I stopped counting after the first hundred. After that, time became meaningless.
Sometimes I still can't believe a world like this exists. A world made for trading, yet built for only one person.
I was alone. I have been alone for… I don't even know how long anymore. Occasionally I receive items from outside, just enough to remind me that the rest of existence still… moves. But everything else, I had to create myself. Food, shelter, tools, weapons—everything.
This world is meant to train you in every way imaginable: combat, farming, politics from every era, magic powerful enough to make gods envious. I've learned and mastered things no human should even be able to name.
The only thing I have never been able to do is leave.
I tried dimensional magic once. I stepped through the portal—only to appear right back here an instant later. I tried severing my connection to the dimension itself, but that failed too. If you can think of a method, I've tried it. Nothing works.
There is a way to leave. I know there must be. But I don't know what it is.
I can only hope.
Then tonight, the sky tore open.
A portal—brief, flickering like a dying flame.
Someone fell through it.
A girl.
And just like that—it closed.
Damn it. I should have reacted faster.
But thinking about regrets can wait. For the first time in centuries, someone else is here. A real person. My heart feels… strange. Excited, almost. Maybe—just maybe—this means I can finally find a way out.
I approached the crater where she landed. To my surprise, she wasn't injured—only unconscious. Black hair, uniform like that of a military officer or a commander. I checked her condition carefully; she seems exhausted, but not hurt.
What caught my attention, though, was her magic. Chaotic, unstable—but undeniably there. Her reserves are tiny compared to mine, but that makes sense. I've survived monsters that shouldn't exist, challenges designed to be impossible. Once, I had to defeat a creature immune to every form of attack except one extremely specific combination of elements—and I didn't even know its weakness beforehand.
Seriously… who designs something like that?
But now, none of that matters.
Because I am no longer alone.
And that changes everything.
I carried the girl to one of the empty rooms in my mansion.
Yes, I built a mansion here.
And before you judge—it's not a normal mansion. At its widest point, it's nearly nine kilometers across.
…Look. I was not in the best mental state at the time. Too much time alone does things to you.
I set her on a bed and stepped back, taking a breath. She was still breathing normally, just exhausted. Good.
I placed several detection spells around the room — nothing invasive, just enough to alert me when she wakes up. I didn't put any surveillance spells on her or anything like that. Even though I could, easily.
But I don't exactly want to start this off with distrust.
If we're going to be stuck together in this place, I would rather not give her a reason to hate me on day one.
And, well… who knows. Maybe something could happen between us. I've been alone long enough to admit I wouldn't mind it.
But if she has a boyfriend or husband, then that's it. No interest. I refuse to be the guy who ruins relationships. I may be lonely, but I'm not a homewrecker. Thank you very much.
I left her to rest and went outside to do my morning training routine.
Simple stuff, really.
Kill a thousand different monsters using a thousand different weaknesses in under an hour.
If I fail, I start over.
Oh—and I'm only allowed to use my sense of smell.
No sight. No hearing. No mana perception. No detection magic. Nothing.
Just scent.
Yes, easy.
…And yes, I know how insane that sounds.
But when you've been trapped in a world designed to break you for centuries, your definition of "simple" shifts a little.
The monsters appeared like they always do, scattered across the field, the forest, the ruins—wherever the system decides they should be. I stepped forward, closed my eyes, and let every other sense fade.
Just the faint trace of burning fur.
The iron tang of blood.
The sour rot of venom glands.
The sweetness of illusion-based magic.
One by one, they fell.
Methodical. Efficient. Routine.
By the time I finished, the hour hadn't even passed.
I exhaled, the scent of battle still hanging in the air.
Another day. Another thousand kills.
Another reminder of exactly how far I've been pushed.
After I finished the routine, I headed back to the house. My body doesn't even sweat from training anymore — not from something that weak, at least — but habits are habits.
A long time ago, I started going to the bath after every morning session.
Not because I needed it… but because it gave me something close to comfort.
Something human.
So I made a pool.
Actually, more like a hot spring carved into marble with self-cleaning enchantments and temperature adjustment runes. I had the time.
I slipped in, the water warm against my skin. The steam rose, quiet and soft, filling the edge of my senses. For a moment, everything felt still. No battles. No monsters. No constant grinding to survive or improve.
Just peace.
One of the very few pleasures I've kept here.
I closed my eyes, letting the heat soak into muscles that don't even really get tired anymore.
Even after centuries, this moment — this one small ritual — still feels worth something.
Before I even realized it, an entire day had passed.
The girl still hadn't woken up.
At first I was concerned — checked her pulse, her breathing, her mana flow. Everything was fine. Perfectly stable. No internal injuries, no curses, nothing draining her life.
So I waited.
Then I waited more.
And eventually…
I started to think she was just sleeping.
Not unconscious.
Not recovering from some terrible trauma.
Just… sleeping.
Honestly, she might just be lazy.
Imagine falling into a mysterious unknown world and deciding your first action is: nap.
Can't say I don't respect the confidence.
Her life wasn't in danger. She wasn't hurt. She simply didn't want to wake up yet.
I was in the middle of considering whether I should poke her in the forehead or throw her bed into a glacier to motivate her—
The alarm spell went off.
The chime echoed through the mansion.
I blinked.
"…Well. Perfect timing."
I dried my hands, stood up, and headed toward her room.
So I decided to go check on her.
No point in sitting here imagining scenarios forever.
Maybe she'll attack me the second she wakes up.
Maybe she'll panic.
Maybe she'll try to destroy the house.
Which would be… amusing.
Not that she could actually break anything.
This mansion isn't just a home — it's layered with so many protective spells that even I would need at least two full days to dismantle them properly. And that's knowing exactly where every rune, anchor, and energy valve is located.
Anyone else?
They wouldn't even make a scratch.
Even if someone showed up with a concept-level ability — Annihilation, Destruction, Devour, take your pick — I already have counters prepared. When you've been stuck alone in a world full of things designed to kill you, you learn to prepare for everything.
So yes. She can try whatever she wants.
The mansion is staying right where it is.
I took a breath and started walking down the hallway toward her room, the sound of my footsteps echoing softly in the silence.
Time to see how she's doing.
…and hopefully not get stabbed the moment she opens her eyes.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
She was awake.
Not only awake — she was standing on the bed, back straight, posture calm.
Too calm. The kind of calm that comes after panic has already burned out and left iron behind.
I paused and checked automatically — no illusion, no possession, no layered curse response.
Just her.
Her eyes met mine.
Cold, steady, unbroken.
The kind of gaze that says:
Nothing you do will break me.
I exhaled slowly.
"…Okay. This is new. I honestly expected you to attack me the second I walked in. Or at the very least try to run."
She didn't flinch.
"I tried," she said. Her voice was flat, controlled. "Teleportation. Spatial slicing. Ice manipulation. Full power reinforcement. I tried to shatter the door, the walls, the floor. Nothing worked."
Her fingers clenched, knuckles white — but her voice didn't shake.
"But I will not surrender. I won't let you have the satisfaction of breaking me."
I blinked.
"…What?"
Her expression sharpened — defensive, suspicious, angry.
"You're part of the Satan's Faction, right? Why else would you trap me here? Or—" her eyes narrowed, "—maybe you're working with them."
I stared at her for a moment.
Then sighed.
"No. Completely wrong. Every part of that is wrong. First — I'm human."
She hesitated.
"Second — I have no idea what 'Satan's Faction' even is."
Her posture faltered.
"And third — I don't even know who you are, so don't start throwing accusations at someone you know nothing about."
Silence.
For the first time, her expression cracked.
Not fear — not anger — but uncertainty.
"…Oh."
Just that.
A single word, but considering everything that had been burning behind her eyes, it was enough to feel like a crack in armor.
"First, introductions," I said, leaning lightly against the doorframe. "My name is Vince. You're in what I assume is my dimension… or pocket world… whatever it is. And right now, it seems to be treating you as a guest."
I let that sink in.
"That depends on what you do next."
Silence settled between us — tense, but not hostile now.
I gestured lightly.
"…Your name?"
She blinked, the iron in her posture relaxing just a fraction.
"Ah—sorry. My name is Serafall Sitri."
She straightened her back instinctively, as if announcing herself on a battlefield.
"One of the Generals of the Rebel Faction. A Devil from the Christian Pantheon."
I stared.
…
"So, you're a Devil."
"Correct," she said, chin held high.
"Like the soul-deal-making type? Or the contract-granting type? Or the 'I collect emotional despair and glitter it up as power' type?"
"I—what?" She blinked. "No, that's—those are stereotypes. We don't—"
"And how," I continued calmly, "did you even get inside this place?"
That threw her off completely.
She opened her mouth.
Closed it again.
Looked like she was trying to remember.
"…I don't know."
Her voice was small this time — not weak, just genuinely uncertain.
"I was in the middle of a battlefield. I activated a teleportation spell to retreat, but something intercepted it. Something pulled me here… forcibly."
Her eyes met mine — no arrogance now, only clear focus.
"You said this place is yours… correct?"
I nodded once.
"Then tell me…" she said quietly.
"What kind of world is this?"
I raised an eyebrow, a slow grin threatening the corner of my mouth.
"What kind of place is this?" she asked again.
A ridiculous idea popped into my head — a little cruel, a little bored. Why not have some fun?
"Simple," I said with a perfectly straight face. "It's a sort of prison where I capture high-and-mighty types for my amusement. I break them, parade them, and then—" I paused, made a faint theatrical shrug "—I let the dogs have the last word."
Her eyes narrowed. For a heartbeat the tension snapped back into the room.
Then I let the smile fade and added, softer this time, "Kidding. Mostly."
She didn't laugh.
Her gaze stayed locked onto mine—cold, sharp, evaluating. But something in her expression loosened. Just a fraction.
"…You have a terrible sense of humor," she said flatly.
I lifted one shoulder. "Solitude does that to a man."
Her posture relaxed by a hair. Not enough to be friendly—but enough to show she no longer thought I was about to skin her and throw her to the wolves.
"So." She crossed her arms, slipping back into that disciplined, military composure. "If this is not some sort of imprisonment for your entertainment, then what is it?"
I walked to the chair beside the bed and sat down. Not too close—just within conversation range.
"It's a training world," I said.
"One designed to push limits. Break and rebuild. My… personal space, basically."
She blinked. "So you created a dimension just for trading?"
"Yep," I said simply.
I watched her take that in. She clearly still didn't understand the scale of what I meant, so I decided now was the perfect moment to apply strategic pressure.
"If you want," I added, "I can help you train. Because, to be blunt—" I gestured casually at her, "—you're weak. Extremely so. I thought Devils were supposed to be terrifying, but looking at you? I'm starting to think someone exaggerated the stories."
Her reaction was immediate.
Her wings—formed of magic—flared behind her, and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
"What do you mean I'm weak!?" she snapped.
Her voice wasn't loud—but it was sharp enough to cut stone.
"I am one of the strongest female Devils alive! One of the highest-class fighters of my race! The only ones stronger than me in the Rebel Faction are Sirzechs and Ajuka—those two can fight against the strongest gods and win!"
I let her finish, watching patiently.
Then, very calmly, I said:
"And?"
Silence.
Her anger froze as fast as it had risen.
"Strength is relative," I continued. "You're strong where you come from. That's fine. But here? In this world—my world—you're barely above the baseline of survival."
I didn't say it to insult her.
I said it because it was true.
And she could feel that truth.
Her magic flickered… then drew back in. Controlled. Contained.
She sat slowly on the edge of the bed, expression tight.
"…Then show me," she said quietly.
Not hostile.
Not desperate.
Determined.
"I won't stay weak."
I smiled.
"Good. Then we start tomorrow."
I glanced outside; dusk was already pulling the light from the sky.
"I'll go hunt something for dinner. Don't leave the house — it's for your protection," I said, not really asking.
She gave me a look that said she didn't need babysitting, but I was past arguing with pride. I turned and left, already thinking about what to make: roast, stew, maybe seared game with a spicy herb glaze — something that'll warm a devil and a human both.
I returned just as the last traces of daylight were fading, a cleaned and skinned beast over my shoulder — something like a deer, but with scaled plating along the spine and mana-rich blood. Good flavor. Better stamina recovery.
When I stepped into the mansion, she was there — sitting on the couch like she wasn't sure whether she was allowed to move.
Her posture was tense, but her eyes followed me. Observing. Measuring.
"I'm back," I said simply.
She nodded once. No unnecessary words.
Good. I could work with that.
I headed toward the kitchen, and after a moment, she followed.
The kitchen was… large. Too large.
I built it during my "I will become the greatest chef the universe has ever seen" phase.
A phase that lasted forty-seven years.
Marble countertops. Enchanted knives. Self-heating stoves. Drying racks with temperature-control magic. A stone oven carved with runes to maintain perfect internal airflow at all times.
Her eyes widened just slightly.
Even Devils respected craftsmanship.
"…You live alone, yet your kitchen looks like it could feed an army," she said.
"It could," I replied, placing the meat on the cutting block. "And it has. Though the army was mostly wolves, dragons, and a few very persistent slimes."
She blinked.
"…What."
"Long story."
I drew my knife. Not a steel blade — something older, sharpened to the point sound itself hesitated around it.
She watched carefully.
"You're… skilled," she said after a while.
"Time does that," I answered. "When you have nothing else, you learn everything."
She didn't respond. But her gaze softened again.
I carved, seasoned, and set the meat to marinate, then motioned.
"Can you handle vegetables?"
She straightened, chin lifting as if I had issued a challenge.
"I am a high-ranking devil general. Of course I can—"
She grabbed a carrot and attempted to slice it.
It exploded.
She froze.
I stared.
"…Right. So we're starting from zero."
"I can cook!" she snapped, ears turning slightly pink.
"Sure," I said gently. "And I can dance ballet."
She glared. I smirked.
The tension loosened just a little more.
I guided her hands. Showed her the pressure, the angle, the rhythm. Slowly, she matched it — not perfectly, but with determination.
There was a moment — quiet, simple — where we stood side by side, shadows warm from the firelight, steam rising in soft silver ribbons.
Just two people.
We finished cooking just as the sun disappeared behind the horizon.
The mansion lit up automatically — soft golden light spilling from the spell-lamps I'd set into the walls. They worked like technology, but powered by mana. A bit overengineered, sure, but they made the place feel less… empty.
We sat at the dining table.
Yes, the table was a hundred meters long.
No, I did not want to talk about the period of my life that led to building a table large enough to seat several kingdoms.
Thankfully, she didn't ask.
"So," I started, "what's your world like? I'm human, so I don't know much about your race or… any of that."
She gave me a look.
A look that said 'Sure. Human. And I'm the Tooth Fairy.'
Then she rolled her eyes so hard I'm surprised her neck didn't snap.
"Is that so? A human. Of course." Her tone was dry enough to evaporate oceans. "If I believed that, I'd have to assume my intelligence is questionable at best."
Fantastic.
So she thinks I'm lying.
Great start.
She leaned back a little before continuing.
"There isn't much to say. There was a war between three factions: Heaven and its angels, the fallen angels led by Grigori, and us — the Devils. The war was brutal. Centuries long. Millions died. And it didn't end because anyone won."
She looked at her food, expression distant.
"It ended because there was nothing left to throw into it."
I listened silently.
"But that wasn't all," she continued. "Other factions joined. Gods, pantheons, outer beings — everyone had a stake. And in the end, it was just loss. The original rulers of our race died on the frontlines."
She exhaled. "Their heirs wanted to restart the war. Some of us refused. That refusal became a rebellion."
I nodded.
"So the old rulers — the ones you rebelled against — they're strong, right? Strong enough to crush the rebellion if they really wanted to?"
She smiled.
Not a happy smile.
A knowing one.
"Hehehe. No. Not at all. Most of them are weaker than me. A few may match me. The real problem is not strength. The problem is they are the rightful heirs. The old devils support them out of loyalty. Tradition. Ancestry. The ghosts of their parents who died against Big G."
"Big G?" I repeated. "Why not just say God or Yahweh?"
She stared at me like I just suggested petting a dragon while it's on fire.
"He placed a restriction on our race. We take damage if we speak his name out loud."
"…But you didn't take damage when I said it."
She froze.
"…It should have happened," she whispered.
She looked down at her hands.
Then tried again.
"God."
Nothing.
"Yahweh."
Nothing.
Not even a spark.
Her expression shifted — confusion first, then disbelief, then something like fear.
"…This shouldn't be possible."
I leaned back slightly, watching her processing.
"Welcome," I said softly, "to a world where the rules you knew don't apply."
"Back to the war," I said, resting my chin on my hand. "You participated in it?"
She shook her head.
"No. But my parents did. And the stories are… not pleasant."
I nodded slowly.
Then I sighed.
"To tell you the truth, the war your race fought was probably literal hell. But what you'll be going through here…" I paused, choosing my words carefully, "is something else."
Her eyes narrowed, listening closely.
"Let me give you an example. Something easy. Something I do in the morning just to wake up."
Her expression said she was ready to hear something reasonable.
Poor her.
"I shut off all my senses except one," I said calmly. "Then I go fight a thousand monsters. Each has a different weakness—fire, light, sound, mana disruption, or sometimes a combination that only exists for one second every hour. And I have to get it right each time. If I don't, I start over."
Serafall stared.
Not impressed.
Just… silent.
"…A thousand?" she repeated slowly.
"Yes."
"With one sense."
"Yes."
"And weaknesses that change per second."
"Correct."
She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.
"So you're a comedian," she said flatly.
I blinked. "What?"
"No, no, it's fine," she continued with a smirk. "You've been alone for a long time. Your imagination must be very vivid. Please, continue. What do you do after that, fight the concept of time using only interpretive dance?"
I rubbed my forehead.
This was going well.
"Okay," I said, "how about something hard."
"Oh, there's more?" she said, deadpan.
"Yes." I continued, tone steady. "Sometimes I have to kill an opponent who can only be damaged when the stars align perfectly. At the exact moment. While I cast eighteen elemental spells in precise coordinates around his body. If I'm off by even a millimeter or a second, the entire attempt fails."
She stared.
Then slowly, very slowly:
"…You realize how that sounds, right?"
"I am aware."
"So you're telling me you have to astronomically snipe a star-aligned boss using precision spell choreography while blindfolded."
I paused.
"…Basically, yes."
She put her head in her hands.
"You are insane."
"Possibly."
Silence.
I tapped the table.
"Well, lucky for you, he shows up again in about three days. Training cycle reset."
Her head snapped up.
"Wait—that's real?"
"Yes."
"You weren't joking?"
"No."
She stared at me.
Then closed her eyes.
Then inhaled.
"…I want to watch."
Not because she believed me.
But because now she needed to see whether I was a liar, a lunatic, or something impossible.
I smiled.
"Good. Then prepare yourself."
Morning came faster than expected.
I was already in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. It had become habit — wake, train, cook, exist. A routine built out of centuries, unchanging.
Meanwhile, Serafall was still asleep.
Which was… surprising.
She was one of the leaders of a rebellion. A high-ranking general. Someone who should wake at dawn with polished discipline and tactical awareness.
Instead, she was currently proving that none of that stops a person from being a professional sleeper.
I flipped the pan with a sigh.
"Revolutionary commander, huh? Right."
But it was her first real night here. After a dimensional displacement, forced isolation, loss of connection to her world, and the stunning realization that the rules of her existence might no longer apply?
Yeah. I could let her sleep.
Just this once.
I set the table, casual, unhurried.
Light footsteps echoed in the hall a few minutes later.
She appeared in the doorway—hair slightly messy, uniform jacket thrown back on, still trying to remember how existing works.
"You're awake," I said.
"I am," she replied, voice tired but steady. "Unfortunately."
I handed her a plate.
"Breakfast."
She sat down, took the first bite—
—and froze.
"…This is good."
"Of course it is," I said, sipping my tea. "I had several decades to perfect the recipe."
She paused mid-chew.
"…Decades?"
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
Silence.
She swallowed slowly, questioning every life choice that led her to this moment.
"And you still insist you're human," Serafall said between bites. "Yet here you are talking about 'decades' like they're a morning jog. You look like you're in your early twenties. Maybe younger."
I didn't even look up from my tea.
"I never said my aging stayed normal."
She frowned. "…Meaning?"
I set the cup down.
"I've been here for a while," I said. "Let's say… around twenty thousand years. Give or take a few centuries."
The fork slipped from her fingers and hit the plate with a soft clink.
She just stared at me.
"…Twenty. Thousand."
"Yes."
"You—" she pointed at me, eyebrows nearly jumping off her face, "—you do not look like someone who has lived twenty thousand years."
"I moisturize."
She blinked slowly.
"That's not— that's not how— that's not—" she gave up, dragging both hands down her face. "Are you hearing yourself?"
"Every word."
"No. No. No. This is impossible. No human lives that long. No devil even lives that long without going insane. And you're— you're just…" she gestured vaguely at my entire existence, "sitting here. Making breakfast. Like this is normal."
"It is normal," I said. "For me."
She just stared at me, mouth slightly open, trying to process the entire concept of '20,000 years and somehow emotionally stable.'
"…Are you—" she asked slowly, "—okay?"
I paused.
Then, with perfect honesty:
"I don't know."
Serafall leaned back in her chair.
"For the first time since I got here," she said quietly, "I believe you."
"It's time for your training to begin," I said, standing and stretching. "Because you're just starting, I'll give you one monster. Your task: find its weakness and kill it."
She blinked, expression straightening into that familiar military poise. "Okay. That shouldn't be hard."
I nodded. "Good. You'll have one hour. No drains, no outside help. Runes on the field will block teleportation and most spatial tricks. Think of it like… a warm-up."
She scoffed once. "Fine. Send it."
I walked to the window, looked down at the training grounds — the same place where a thousand strange things had died under my hands — and opened a channel.
A ripple of earth answered. The field rearranged itself: low rocks, a strip of marsh, a collapsed watchtower, and then, as if pulled from a storybook of nightmares, the monster formed.
It was wrong in small ways. Too many joints in the limbs. Eyes set like black opals in too many places. A scent like old coins and cold iron.
Serafall's eyes narrowed.
"Identify, then adapt," I said. "I'll be watching."
She drew in a breath, closing her fingers into a half-fist. Mana licked around her palms—chaotic, thin, but ready. She moved like a general leading a charge: quick, precise, confident.
She began with an assault of fire—flashy, loud, raw. The beast flinched, a few scales chipping, but it did not fall. It countered with a spray of acidic mist; the flame spat out and fizzled. She switched to compressed ice, slamming shards at its flank. The ice shattered against an odd, oily membrane with no hold.
She frowned, mid-attack. "Its hide… is not taking elemental damage normally."
"Then find what it does take," I said.
She closed her eyes, recalibrating. Her hands moved in a pattern, weaving minor sigils. A sound rose—an unstructured note, more a test than a spell. The creature's head twitched. One of its many eyes dilated.
She smiled—small, sharp. "Sound?"
She changed tactics. She sang a short, complex phrase, one of those old devil war-phrases meant to unbalance foes. The creature convulsed, then recoiled, covering three eyes with its forelimbs. Encouraged, Serafall refined the sound into a rhythm, a punctuated cascade that hit the creature's more sensitive sockets in sequence.
But when she pushed harder, aiming for a finish, the creature adapted. Its other eyes slid into a protective sheath and it lunged with a spear of bone.
She dodged, but the attack grazed her arm. A line of cold fire bloomed across her skin—painful, honest.
Her breath hitched. For the first time since she arrived, I saw something like doubt.
"You're off tempo," I called. "It learns patterns fast. Break rhythm, force it to re-evaluate."
She blinked, then dropped a steady, irregular beat—staccato, then long, then a whispered counter-phrase—and the creature faltered, recalculating. That was when she struck: a precise compression of sound into a spear directed at its exposed ocular nodes. The monstrous body collapsed in a shudder.
Silence fell over the field.
She stood there, panting, chest heaving, magic fizzing at her fingertips. She had done it—killed the monster.
I clapped once, slow. "Well done. You found a non-elemental weakness and exploited it. That's progress."
She let out a laugh that sounded like relief and anger mixed. She flexed her arm, checking the scorched line, then looked up at me.
"So?" she said. "Judge me."
I shrugged, amused. "You rely too much on instinctive force. You hit hard, but you don't always listen. Training here isn't only about power. It's about observation, improvisation, and being willing to look stupid for a second so you can learn."
She rolled her eyes. "I don't 'look stupid.'"
"You just tried to intimidate a creature that can't process facial expressions," I said. "So—progress is still on the table."
A reluctant huff escaped her. Not quite a laugh, but close.
I gestured at her arm. "Let me see."
She hesitated, then stepped forward. The burn had the clean edge of alchemical acid—no infection, just that lingering, bitter mana-sting. I traced a cooling glyph over the wound; frost-blue light sank into the flesh and the angry red faded to a dull, healing pale.
She flexed her fingers, surprised. "Efficient."
"Habit." I tilted my head toward the field. "Again tomorrow. Harder."
Her chin lifted. "How much harder?"
"Not a huge jump," I said. "I'll add an opponent. You're just starting to adapt, but don't forget—the monsters aren't always so polite. Sometimes, even if you find a weakness, it's still too tough to penetrate. You need power and control."
"How much power?" she asked, blunt and clinical.
"From what I saw, your strongest element is ice, right?"
She straightened proudly. "Yes. At full strength I could blanket a country in ice."
"That's decent," I said. "If you concentrate that much power into a single, precise strike, maybe you can shatter one of its weak points. But concentration isn't just raw mana—it's timing, channeling, and not blowing your load on flashy effects. You hit with precision, not spectacle."
She considered that, jaw working. "So channel, compress, strike one spot."
"Exactly. And when we add the second opponent tomorrow, you'll need to maintain focus while moving. One enemy forces pressure, the other forces rhythm breaks." I tapped the table lightly. "But don't worry too much about raw output for that one. You won't need anything absurd yet."
She raised an eyebrow. "Define absurd."
I shrugged. "Let's say… city-level destruction, at most."
Her expression went still.
"…At most."
"Yes."
She stared at me like she was trying to decide whether I was crazy, joking, or genuinely telling the truth. The problem was — I was telling the truth.
And she was starting to realize that.
I stretched my shoulders back. "Anyway. Before I forget, I need to train too. You can watch if you want."
Her eyes narrowed, something between curiosity and challenge flickering behind them.
"You train after setting up my training?" she asked.
"Of course. My routines don't stop just because you're here." I gestured lazily toward the door. "Come or don't. Your choice."
She hesitated for only a moment.
"…I'll watch," she said, voice steady.
I smirked.
Of course she would.
People always want proof—until they get it.
"Good," I said, stepping toward the exit.
"Try to keep up."
She followed.
Not because she believed me.
But because she needed to see whether the impossible was real.
I walked to the edge of the training grounds and stopped.
Serafall followed, staying just behind me. I held up a hand.
"Stay here," I said. "Watch. Don't enter. No matter what happens."
She opened her mouth—probably to argue—but something in my tone made her close it again.
Good.
I stepped forward.
The moment I crossed the boundary, the air shifted—currents of mana twisting like the ground itself recognized me.
Without hesitation, I lifted my right hand and cut my own arm off at the elbow.
No hesitation. No sound. No pain response.
Blood didn't spill. It evaporated into red vapor, caught by a containment glyph that hadn't even visibly formed.
Serafall froze.
Her pupils widened.
She didn't breathe.
Then I closed my left eye—and with it, every remaining sense.
No sight. No hearing. No smell. No magic perception. No touch. No voice. No external awareness at all.
Just the faint thrum of my heartbeat, and the memory of every movement I'd ever made.
The world went silent for me.
But for her—
The ground erupted.
Monsters poured out of the soil, the sky, the cracks between reality—creatures made from claws, bone, hunger, and design. Some towered, some slithered, some flickered in and out of matter.
I did not hesitate.
I moved.
Not like a human. Not like something living.
Like a memory of violence wearing a human shape.
Every strike was perfect. Every motion precise. Every kill instantaneous.
A thousand years of repetition condensed into instinct.
Serafall watched with her mouth slightly open—because there was nothing to compare this to. No battlefield. No war. No devil lord. No god.
Not even time seemed to touch me.
I was simply moving through a dance I had performed more times than stars had risen and set.
For me, it was entertainment.
For her, I must have looked like something born from death.
I cut my arm off for the thrill of it—just to feel something in these endless years of solitude.
After I finished i leave the training grounds and headed myself with easy and looked at her.
She didn't speak.
Not at first.
She walked straight up to me, eyes wide, jaw tight—then hit my chest with the heel of her hand.
Not a spell. Not a killing blow.
Just a furious, shaking thud.
"What," she said, voice trembling, "is wrong with you?"
Another shove. "You cut your arm off—for fun?"
I opened my mouth. She hit me again.
"Don't you dare say 'habit.' Don't you dare say 'entertainment.' Don't you dare pretend that—" her breath hitched, "—that you're not a person anymore."
I stood there and took it. The hits weren't meant to hurt; they were meant to shake something awake.
She grabbed my collar, dragged me down to her eye level, and snarled:
"Promise me you won't do that again."
Silence stretched.
I held her gaze. The training grounds hummed behind us—resets cycling, wards breathing, the world waiting for me to shrug and turn away like I always had.
Instead, I heard my own voice say, low and steady:
"…While you're here, I won't."
Her eyes narrowed. "That's not good enough."
"It's what I can give." I didn't flinch. "I'll stop—for as long as you stay."
She stared at me, searching for the lie.
There wasn't one.
The anger in her shoulders softened by a fraction; the fists at my chest loosened, then slipped to rest against me instead of striking. She swallowed, hard.
"Fine," she said. "Then I'm staying."
It shouldn't have hit like it did. Two simple words, heavier than iron.
Something old shifted inside me—something I'd buried under routines and rituals and the neat geometry of survival. Attraction first, yes: the clean, bright spark of noticing her. But threaded through it, warmer and far more dangerous, the beginning of attachment.
She let me go and took a step back, scrubbing at her eyes like dust had gotten in them.
"If you do something that reckless again," she muttered, "I'll freeze your legs and make you crawl to the infirmary."
I almost smiled. "Understood."
She pointed at me. "And we're setting rules. New ones. You don't get to decide alone anymore."
"That's… new," I said.
"That's healthy," she snapped, then exhaled. "Tomorrow we train. Tonight you rest. No self-mutilation. No sense deprivation. No 'for excitement.'"
"Bossy," I said.
"Alive," she shot back. "Stay that way."
We walked back toward the mansion in silence. Not empty silence—the kind that settles when two people have both said something true and don't know where to put it yet.
At the threshold, she paused.
"Vince."
"Yes?"
"Thank you for promising." A beat, softer: "Don't make me regret it."
"I won't," I said. "Not while you're here."
She nodded once and disappeared down the corridor, her steps echoing against marble and wardlight.
I stood there a long time, listening to the house breathe, feeling the place I'd carved alone shift its weight to make room for a second heartbeat.
Two days until the fight of the year.
I wonder what it'll be this time. Probably boring—last time I killed it using just my legs.
I glanced toward where Serafall had gone and thought:
Maybe I won't need that kind of entertainment anymore.
I decided to show her the bathhouse.
It stretched for nearly three hundred meters — a cathedral of stone and steam — built from something like marble, only a hundred times stronger. The pools refilled themselves with crystal-clear water, filtered through layered glyphs until it tasted like cold air. The floor of the main pool was paved in white diamonds that caught the light and scattered it into soft constellations underfoot.
Yes. I know.
Overkill.
I led her along the colonnade, the steam drifting in ribbons across the surface.
"This way," I said, opening a side door to the changing wing.
Inside, I showed her a wall of lacquered compartments and neatly folded robes. "You can change here."
There were… a lot of compartments.
Enough for at least a thousand people to change every day for a century.
I did not elaborate.
She glanced from the endless line of lockers to me, then back again. One eyebrow rose.
I stared at a very interesting piece of ceiling.
"…I had a phase," I said. "We will not be discussing it."
She covered a smile with the back of her hand. "Understood."
I gestured to the rack. "Robes, towels, sandals. Temperature runes are set to neutral; you can adjust with the dial by the steps. The water wards filter out toxins and stabilize mana currents, so if your magic is still chaotic, it'll settle."
She ran her fingers over a robe's edge, testing the weave. "You built all this… alone?"
"Had the time," I said. "And the motivation."
She nodded once, then paused at the threshold between the changing room and the water. "You're not—"
"I'll use the other wing," I said quickly. "Across the hall. Privacy wards in both."
A small nod. "Thank you."
I turned to leave, then added, half over my shoulder, "Don't touch the black dial with the triple-etched sigil."
Her eyes narrowed. "What does it do?"
"Nothing we need to talk about."
A beat. "Ever."
She laughed — a quiet, surprised sound — and disappeared into the changing room.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and headed for the opposite wing, the warm hum of the place settling into my bones the way it always did. For once, the bathhouse didn't feel like a monument to loneliness.
It felt… used.
And that made all the difference.
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I had this idea for 2 weeks and decided to write it. I don't know if I'll continue but I thought I'd see if you like it.