The deities' ruins, already shattered, were utterly annihilated—debris scattered into the air, reshaping the environment itself. As dust and motes of light gradually settled into an indifferent rhythm, the fallen goddess froze, astonished by the state of her prey after her attack.
Though Eros' spell had struck him, Leir bore only minor injuries. That alone would be remarkable—but it was not the only reason her surprise lingered. Above all, he had employed a spell famously known among mages: Cloak.
It mirrored the spell Benedict had once used to mask himself and Victoria's scent when hunted by mastiffs at Auronis—but far surpassed it. Beyond concealing his presence, it offered protection and layering of raw mana that significantly improved his physical prowess.
"His first time using magic… and he casts a spell with such precision?" Eros mused briefly, the absurdity of it pressing upon her thoughts.
And yet, her astonishment was justified. Though Leir had never wielded magic before this moment, he had studied it obsessively, devouring theory and mastering the rhythm of spells in his mind. The tone of incantation, the flow of mana through his meridians, the poise, the focus, hand signs, the acute awareness—every element aligned, waiting for the opportunity to manifest.
At last, he was ready—a man who had meticulously honed every skill, every instinct, all in anticipation of this singular moment.
Eros acknowledged his brilliance, a trace of low excitement playing at her lips.
"So… my assumptions were correct. He intends to throw everything at me, wielding his newly awakened abilities, seeking fulfilment even in death."
A quiet, almost amused chuckle escaped her throat. Then, with ferocity born of divine might, she leapt from the broken statue of Ares, descending upon Leir.
"Leir, battle me to your heart's content! And I shall grant you a death befitting your courage!" Eros screamed, excitement crackling in her voice as her mana surged ferociously around her.
"Here she comes…" Leir thought warily, yet his stance radiated unwavering resolve.
"You won't die from this, will you?" She looked down at him, a teasing, lethal smile playing on her lips.
Leir could feel it in his bones. It was the calm before the storm her next spell would unleash.
With flawless gestures, Eros commanded a rain of luminous arrows, each igniting violently upon contact with any matter. Leir's enhanced reflexes and agility allowed him to weave through the explosions, dodging the relentless assault amidst the ruins.
And then—unexpectedly—he stopped. Glaring at her from below, he crossed his arms and assumed an arcane stance. Eros recognized it immediately.
"She aims to corner me like a rat before finishing me… But even so, something seems off. She's holding back. Mercy? No. Perhaps she wants me alive. Souls depart from their bodies after death… Killing me without first devouring my soul is out of line for her. I must meet her with equal power! Leir thought, his mind sharp and calculating.
"Orion!"
Mana erupted from Leir's body, sweeping through the ruins and wrenching everything into the air. It hung there, orbiting him—as though the world itself bent to his will.
"Telekinesis?" Eros' thoughts raced, tinged with surprise as she witnessed the mortal's second spell unfold.
The fallen goddess's light arrows collided with the levitating debris, their explosions unleashing shockwaves. Leir remained perfectly composed, countering each assault with precision. Nothing thrown at him disturbed the equilibrium of his spell.
Then, suddenly, he bent forward, and blood spurted from his nose in a torrent.
"He's reaching his limits?" Eros thought, a flicker of amusement in her expression. "Even as an exception, a mortal remains a mortal."
Spells of telekinesis carried subtle pitfalls for beginners like Leir. If mismanaged—not by commanding objects through sheer force of will, but by directly infusing mana into them—the weight of each object became an extension of the caster, taxing both body and mind.
Sensing the strain, Leir dispelled his telekinesis, abandoning the arcane approach for what seemed delusional for a mortal against a deity—a tried-and-true method: hand-to-hand combat.
Ruins and debris tumbled beneath him as he leapt from one fragment to another, closing the distance between himself and the fallen goddess. With a powerful thrust, he launched a punch, cloaked in mana to augment its force and conceal its trajectory. Yet Eros anticipated the obvious strike, moving with a hallucinatory speed and responding with deadly precision.
"Do you think you can win in close combat? How amusingly naïve," she taunted, her voice laced with derision.
Her hand seized his arm, delivering a flurry of strikes. Each blow radiated outward, sending nearby debris flying in violent arcs.
"Argh…" Blood spurted from his mouth and nose as his vision blurred, and his eyes glazed over as if he had been knocked unconscious.
Before he could even attempt a counter, she gripped his face, her hand glowing with mana, glittering like living light. Leir braced with all his strength, struggling to break free—but her force was absolute.
With a ferocious motion, she grabbed his face and hurled him to the ground at near-light speed. The impact ignited another cataclysmic explosion, one that would have shattered any ordinary mortal. Yet having witnessed his resilience against her previous attacks, she allowed no hesitation, no doubt—Leir's survival was nothing short of extraordinary.
With her legs drawn together, she descended toward him like a spear of judgment piercing the wind. Upon landing, a deafening explosion erupted, carving a vast crater into the ground—a feat reminiscent of a fallen star striking the earth.
Her assessment had been correct. In that moment, Leir was no more than a cockroach in the eyes of the fallen goddess. Yet she did not dwell on such thoughts.
Leir leapt back a considerable distance, giving himself the slightest chance to survive the next strike. His left eye was completely obscured by blood, and though he remained standing, his body was battered from head to toe. In any other circumstance, a mortal would have perished.
However, with his magic now awakened, his body had transcended into that of a sorcerer. Coupled with his use of Cloak to reinforce himself, Leir had, in that very moment, surpassed the frailty inherent to all mortals.
Twin glimmers of light flared from Eros' two-pointed figures, a radiance strong enough to blind anyone who dared look upon it.
"I can't see anything," Leir muttered, shielding his face.
With a snap of her fingers, Eros shifted from two-pointed fingers to one. A lineal explosion surged toward him, annihilating all in its path.
The dust and debris veiled him, yet the trail of his blood marked his position in stark crimson.
Eros settled upon one of the remaining colossal statues—the severed right hand of Nemesis.
"Did you know?" she asked, her voice calm, almost playful. "The only spell I have cast here is the one that awakened your magic. Since the beginning of our battle, not a single other spell from my arsenal has been used. What you've endured till now is nothing but the innate force of my mana."
From the smoke and rubble, Leir emerged, his condition critical. His injuries had worsened; his left arm was entirely lost, his face marred by her handprint, and his left eye rendered useless.
"Is this all your potential amounts to? At this rate, you shall fall with regret. That would be dishonourable by your own standards. Come on now, do your best. I expect much from you." She smiled teasingly, legs and lower arms crossed, her right upper hand's fingers flirting with her face, while the left upper arm inspected the sharpness of her nails.
Leir lifted his gaze toward the sky for a brief moment, only to find nothing comparable to it above. He sighed, then smiled faintly before letting the thought go.
"You took the words right out of my mouth. I'm glad even gods have a genuine sense of humour, though I must admit it's… somewhat macabre." He smiled, blood trickling down his face.
"Aw… Is that a compliment? I haven't received a dedicated poem in decades." Her voice carried a trace of vague joy.
Silence reigned for a heartbeat after her remark. Then, inexplicably, Leir began to laugh—a laugh so sudden and oddly placed that it seemed to contract his battered frame. The sound startled Eros for a moment, prompting her to glance around, bewildered.
Then, as if infected by the same contagious mirth, Eros followed his laughter. Their voices intertwined, shifting rhythmically, as though engaged in some unspoken contest of joy and defiance.
The laughter rose to a fevered crescendo, only to be interrupted by a giant magic circle erupting beneath them. With divine instinct, Eros leapt away, putting a safe distance between herself and the circle.
"A third spell? Is he truly human?" she wondered, her eyes narrowing in quiet awe.
"A living dog holds far more worth than a dead lion," Leir spoke calmly. "After this brutal exchange, I am convinced that even a lifetime of training would never have allowed me to reach your level. Such is the cruelty of predestined fates."
"What is he babbling about? And why do I sense… confidence?" Confusion crept into Eros' mind.
"Cloudy wings… Twilight rainbow… Paranormality."
As Leir spoke the incantations, intricate symbols blossomed across the magic circle. Eros' eyes widened in recognition.
"These symbols… they are not unlike the inscriptions carved in the Faust clan's talismans. And this circle—it resembles Hermes' original displacement spells, yet it's clearly a variation. A teleportation spell… but it makes no sense. Hermes imposed restrictions for mortals: a key that represents a body part of the caster and blood sacrifices of any kind… and he has neither. What is he plotting?!" Her thoughts spiralled into confusion and disbelief.
Suddenly, she noticed Leir smiling faintly, blood trickling from the wound where his left arm had been. But something else caught her attention—his missing arm was cleanly severed, as if he had been born without it. And that mischievous smile of his… it unsettled her entirely. Then it rang once again in her mind.
"A key that represents a body part of the caster."
Leir hadn't merely lost his left arm to her attack; he had sacrificed it deliberately, using it as a key to launch his spell. His intentions became clear: he planned to escape.
Rage erupted within Eros.
"Liar!" she screamed, fury boiling over. "It wasn't part of the deal!"
"Potential can only be fulfilled through years of practice. I never came here to die. Life is short; I will live mine fully, with every precious fragment of time I've been granted," Leir said calmly.
Then, with finality, he completed the spell:
"Translocation!"
The magic circles contracted, restraining the spell's range to his very core. But Eros had not yet spoken her last word. With a roar of rage, she dashed after him.
"Where are you going!? I won't let you escape!"
Leir raised his remaining hand in a melancholic gesture, thumbed up to her, and smiled faintly.
"I'm grateful to you… for granting my wish."
At point-blank range, before she could even lay a finger on him, he vanished, leaving the fallen goddess crashing through the ruins until she ended on her knees, facing the cracked monument of Momus."
Humiliation ravaged her like a living blaze, scouring every vein until even her breath stuttered. Her features twisted—not with mere anger, but with a raw, unbecoming fury that stripped her of all semblances of divinity. Teeth ground, eyes incandescent, body rigid—on the brink of rupture.
Sweat drenched her as her muscles seized, and around her, mana convulsed into a vicious, sinistral maelstrom. The air distorted, dense with malice, the ground beneath her feet fracturing beneath the sheer weight of her aura.
Yet she remained still as if paralyzed.
For the first time in eons, a mortal had deceived her.
And in that stillness, her fury did not wane—it deepened… into an apotheotic wrath.
***
Meanwhile, somewhere in distant fields beneath the quiet shroud of night, a different silence reigned. A flock lay lifeless, strewn across a lotus garden. At the centre, a faintly glowing magic circle marked the site of his arrival. There, amidst the fallen sheep, stood Leir—alive, but weary and bloodied.
As master of the flock, he had prepared meticulously. This place had not been chosen at random—it was where his sheep had long grown accustomed to rest. Night after night, they returned to this very ground, unaware that their familiarity would one day bind them to it.
Before the ceremony, he had carved the magic circle and symbols necessary for his teleportation spell, anchoring the land as his destination—so that when the magic was invoked, it would claim them instantly, and draw him to their side.
Power demands sacrifice. In obedience to the spell's second requirement, he had given up his sole companions—the sheep that had followed him through every trial of his apprenticeship.
Now, despite legs trembling from pain and exhaustion, he forced himself to remain standing. One by one, he buried them—each grave carved with care, each gesture steeped in reverence for the bond they had shared. Only when the last of them was laid to rest did his strength finally give way. He sank to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks, a silent lament in the cold night:
"Forgive me, my friends."
He had never been the kind of shepherd to sell his flock, to reduce them to mere property, nor food. He had always cherished them as companions. Yet beneath the dark sky, by the work of his own hands, he had enacted the grim truth of his vocation.
For in the end, no matter the purity of the shepherd's heart, he remained, inexorably, the first—and only—predator of his flock.