Damn, Lencar muttered quietly to himself, feeling slightly helpless and annoyed. He managed to get it in the end, huh.
Lencar shifted his gaze to assess the rest of the group.
Walking slightly behind the two boys were two young women. One had striking silver hair tied in pigtails, wearing the robe of the Black Bulls. She held her chin high, projecting an aura of haughty nobility, but her eyes darted nervously around the crowd. Noelle Silva.
Beside her, wearing the Golden Dawn robe, was a girl with gentle, flowing orange hair and a warm, polite smile. Mimosa Vermillion.
They were all here. The core cast.
Suddenly, the dynamic of the group shifted violently.
Yuno, who had been walking silently, stopped dead in his tracks. Without a single word of warning, he raised his hand. His grimoire flipped open.
The tiny Wind Spirit on his shoulder giggled, a sound like chiming bells, and pointed her tiny finger.
A massive, highly compressed blade of wind erupted from Yuno's hand, aimed directly at the back of Asta's head. It wasn't a gentle gust; it was a lethal, high-velocity strike that could easily sever a tree trunk.
The crowd around them screamed, scrambling backward in terror.
But Asta didn't even turn around.
In a blur of motion too fast for ordinary eyes to track, Asta reached over his shoulder, gripping the hilt of the massive, rusted Demon-Slayer Sword resting on his back. He ripped the heavy blade free and swung it backward in a brutal, blind arc.
SHREEEONG!
The rusted iron met the wind blade in a shower of violent sparks. The anti-magic instantly devoured the spell, shattering the wind into harmless, dispersing breezes that merely ruffled Asta's spiky gray hair.
Asta lowered the sword, finally turning around to face his rival with a massive, fierce grin.
"Hey, handsome jerk!" Asta yelled, pointing the heavy blade at Yuno. "You trying to give me a haircut?! You're going to have to try harder than that if you want to put a scratch on a Black Bull!"
Yuno simply lowered his hand, his expression entirely unchanged. "Your reaction time is still too slow, Asta. If you want to stand on the same stage as me, you need to be faster."
"I'll show you fast!" Asta roared, looking entirely ready to start a brawl right there in the middle of the crowded plaza.
Noelle stepped forward, smacking Asta hard on the back of the head. "Are you an idiot, Dasta?! You can't just start fighting in the middle of the street! We're supposed to be representing our squads!"
Mimosa covered her mouth, giggling softly at the chaotic display. "You two are certainly as energetic as ever."
Lencar watched the entire exchange from his spot near the fountain. He let out a soft, amused breath. It was a perfect display of their dynamic—brutal, unyielding rivalry masked by an unbreakable bond.
After a few more moments of loud bickering, the group reformed. Yuno turned away, his golden eyes fixed on the massive, towering structure in the distance.
"Let's go," Yuno said coolly. "The War Merits Conferment Ceremony is starting soon. We don't want to be late for the Captains."
Asta hoisted his massive sword onto his shoulder, jogging to catch up. "Yeah! I want to see how many stars the other squads got! Just you wait, Yuno, the Black Bulls are going to beat you guys next year!"
The four young Magic Knights walked away, pushing through the parting crowd as they headed toward the grand, heavily guarded Magic Knights headquarters.
Lencar watched them until they disappeared from sight.
He smiled again, a genuine, relaxed expression beneath his illusionary face. The pieces were all on the board. The heroes were heading to the castle. The villains were lurking in the shadows.
Lencar turned away from the fountain and continued his slow, methodical tour of the capital. He had a few more hours before the sky broke open, and he intended to use every second to ensure his knowledge of the city's layout was flawless.
The calm before the storm was beautiful, but he was more than ready for the thunder.
____
The afternoon sun hung low over the Royal Capital of Kikka, casting long, golden shadows across the pristine white cobblestones of the central thoroughfares. The Star Awards Festival had whipped the city into a vibrant, chaotic frenzy of celebration. Banners of crimson, silver, blue, and gold fluttered from the balconies of the towering noble estates, while down in the streets, the commoners and merchants drank, danced, and cheered in honor of the Magic Knights.
Lencar walked slowly through the teeming crowds, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn, unremarkable trousers. The brass camouflage artifact resting against his chest maintained his slouched, unassuming posture, while the synthetic face mask and the delicate layer of Illusion Magic kept his true features completely hidden. To the thousands of people brushing past him, he was just another weary laborer taking in the sights.
But beneath the disguise, his senses were dialed to an agonizingly sharp point.
He moved away from the central plaza, drifting toward the slightly less crowded avenues that bridged the gap between the affluent commercial districts and the outer rings of the noble realm. He found a quiet spot near a stone archway, leaning his shoulder against the cool masonry. He bought a roasted apple from a passing vendor, taking slow, deliberate bites as he watched the sky begin to deepen from bright azure into a bruised, twilight purple.
The tension in his chest was a heavy, coiled spring. He knew what was coming. It was a strange, isolating burden, possessing the knowledge of impending tragedy while surrounded by joyous laughter. He watched a group of children chasing each other with wooden swords, pretending to be Magic Knights. He watched a young couple sharing a cup of sweet wine near a fountain.
Any minute now, Lencar thought, his eyes tracking the fading light.
And then, it happened.
It didn't begin with a sound, but with a feeling. A sudden, violent drop in the atmospheric pressure that made the hairs on the back of Lencar's neck stand at attention. The air itself seemed to curdle, turning thick, cold, and heavy in the lungs.
A fraction of a second later, the entire Royal Capital began to shake.
It wasn't a natural earthquake. The tremors didn't roll through the ground; they vibrated through the ambient mana of the city itself. The cobblestones rattled, glass windows shattered in their wooden frames, and the festive music abruptly ceased, replaced by a collective, confused murmur from the thousands of citizens packed into the streets.
Before the panic could fully set in, the sky tore open.
All around the perimeter of the capital, hovering ominously above the rooftops and the street corners, massive, swirling vortices of dark purple spatial energy ripped through the fabric of reality. They appeared by the dozens, a coordinated, perfectly synchronized network of portals that blotted out the setting sun.
Then came the smell. A sickening, suffocating stench of rotting earth, old blood, and decay washed over the capital, instantly smothering the aromas of roasted meats and sweet perfumes.
Huge amounts of necromantic mana flooded the city from all sides, a tidal wave of sickly, dark purple energy that blighted the air.
From the gaping maws of the spatial portals, the nightmare spilled into the streets.