The road to Saussy stretched longer than it first appeared, unfurling through fields dulled by distance and sky alike. A pale mist lingered low to the earth, not thick enough to blind, but persistent—softening the edges of the world until everything seemed half-remembered. Each footstep disturbed the dew clinging to the grass, and the scent of damp soil rose quietly with their passing.
Along the way, Magna talked.
He walked ahead of the group, hands clasped behind his head, recounting his history with Seyhe as if the years between then and now were no more than a breath apart. His grin was unrestrained, brilliant in a way that made it impossible to doubt his fondness. Whenever Seyhe's name crossed his lips, there was familial love there—unpolished, loud, and entirely sincere.
Xierra listened closely, her gaze drifting between Magna and the road beneath her feet. She could hear it in his voice: the way memory clung not to victories, but to people. Saussy, she realized, was not just a village to him. It was a turning point in his life.
"I used to be a bit of a handful when I was a kid," Magna admitted, laughter bursting free without warning.
It rang through the open air, bold and unrestrained, startling a few birds from the nearby trees. The sound carried with it a vitality that felt almost contagious—no wonder Asta had been hovering near him since they met, eyes bright, posture attentive, as if soaking up every word like sunlight.
Inari, perched loosely on Xierra's shoulders, gave a quiet huff. That explains it.
Then Magna's words caught.
Used to be.
The group slowed, the humor settling into an odd, shared stillness. Sweat gathered at temples not from exertion alone, but from the collective disbelief that followed his claim. No one voiced it, yet the thought lingered between them like a suspended breath.
Noelle and Rhein walked side by side, both wearing expressions carefully neutral. Their eyes flicked briefly toward Magna's back before returning forward—silent judgment mirrored perfectly between them. As if that part ever changed.
Before Magna's tale had taken hold, the meeting of the two squads had been unexpectedly... pleasant.
Xierra remembered it clearly. Asta had gone on at length about how incredible Magna was, praising him with the earnest devotion only he could manage. Noelle, meanwhile, complained about everything from the humidity to the pacing to the way Asta breathed too loudly. Somehow, it all blended into a strange harmony—chaotic, but not unpleasant.
Xierra found herself grateful for Noelle's presence, even if the girl's prickliness could grate. Beneath the sharp words lay something softer, something hesitant, something small. When Noelle had awkwardly asked if they could talk more—if they could be friends—Xierra had nearly smiled herself into embarrassment. That shyness, half-hidden behind pride, was endearing.
Even Rhein had looked momentarily stunned when Xierra took to her so easily.
Ahead of them, Asta and Magna occasionally broke into short races, veering off the path only to double back moments later, laughter trailing behind them like sparks. Inari watched them go with narrowed eyes before exhaling audibly.
"Youth," he muttered.
Rhein chuckled, falling into step beside him. "'Youth'? That came out of you far too naturally." He nudged Inari's side, a playful grin on his face. "How old are you, really?"
Inari spared him a sideways glance, eyes half-lidded with feigned serenity. "Long enough that the world had already begun forgetting itself before you were born."
Rhein blinked. "Dramatic. And I'll remember that."
"As you should."
Despite their differences—status, temperament, upbringing—the two squads didn't come to blows. They argued, certainly. Loudly. Frequently. Inari found himself increasingly irritated every time Asta's voice rose for no discernible reason. Even so, there was something oddly grounding about the constant chatter. Even Rhein, usually reserved, let himself be drawn into the rhythm of their stories.
Magna continued unabated.
He spoke of barging into Saussy Village after receiving his grimoire, fueled by arrogance and fire magic alike, fully convinced he could take over the place. He laughed openly at the memory, unconcerned by the stunned looks thrown his way.
He described chasing villagers while riding his modified broom—Crazy Cyclone, he insisted on its name with no hint of shame—launching fireballs with reckless enthusiasm. Xierra bit the inside of her cheek, shoulders trembling as she tried not to laugh. Noelle turned her face away, lips pressed tight, while Rhein failed miserably at hiding his amusement.
Inari, on the other hand, disappeared entirely—retreating a short distance away to laugh freely, ignoring Magna's indignant shouting about respect for craftsmanship.
Then came Seyhe.
The image Magna painted was vivid: steel swords summoned from nothing, lining the air with lethal precision. Seyhe had stopped him effortlessly. Pinned him to the ground. Nearly skewered him—missing his head by inches. Magna reenacted the moment he crashed into a wall mid-escape, flung clean off Crazy Cyclone.
When he described the spanking—delivered flatly with the blunt edge of a steel sword—the group finally broke.
Magna laughed until his voice roughened, chest rising as he patted it with pride. "I challenged him over and over after that. And every single time, he beat me flat."
He glanced back at them then, grin wide and unguarded.
Inari returned to Xierra's shoulders, settling there with a lazy yawn, tail flicking once before going still.
"He must be strong," Noelle said, voice even—but Xierra heard the awe beneath it.
Xierra nodded, hands clasped behind her back as she walked. She could imagine it clearly now: not just strength, but discipline. Resolve.
Magna's expression softened. "Found out later that old man Seyhe had the magic power to become a Magic Knight when he was younger."
The smile didn't fade.
If anything, it deepened.
Pride lingered in his eyes—not for himself, but for the man who had once stood in his way and unknowingly shaped who he would become.
"He was the one who told me to take the Magic Knights' entrance exam," Magna said, voice bright with a kind of unguarded pride that left no room for doubt. The words tumbled out easily, as if he had carried them for years, waiting for the right air to release them into. "If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be here. And I mean that."
He lifted his hand, thumb raised in a casual gesture that somehow felt ceremonial in its sincerity. "When I passed? He was happier than anyone. Happier than me, even!"
Xierra slowed just enough to walk beside him, her attention fully on the way his eyes softened when he spoke. She smiled—not the polite kind, but something warmer, something earned.
"He sounds like a good person," she said gently. "Anyone who could leave that kind of mark on you has to be."
Magna's grin widened, teeth flashing. For a moment, he looked younger—less like a seasoned Magic Knight and more like the boy he had been in his stories.
"Yeah. He is." He laughed under his breath. "He went to the royal capital and said he wanted to get rich fast. Help the village, you know? But..." His gaze drifted ahead, unfocused. "I think he mostly wanted to see me."
Then, louder, brighter again—"He did take every bit of spare change I had! No mercy at all!"
The laughter that followed was affectionate, unresentful. "But he showed me what a real man should be."
That, more than anything, lingered.
Their steps fell into an unspoken rhythm after that. No one rushed to fill the quiet. It settled naturally, stitched together by birdsong threading through the forest canopy and the soft percussion of boots against earth. The ground yielded slightly beneath them, damp where shade still clung, firm where the sun had begun to reach through thinning leaves.
A breeze wandered through the path, gentle and unhurried. It lifted loose strands of hair, brushed against flushed skin, and carried with it the cool scent of moss and bark. Inari's yawns punctuated the air at irregular intervals, contagious in their own right, while the wind whispered secrets only the trees seemed to understand.
"I wanted to be like him," Magna said suddenly, quieter now. "After Captain Yami... he's the one I respect most."
The sentence trailed off, unfinished but complete all the same.
Xierra hummed softly, a sound of agreement rather than interruption. "That's not a bad thing," she replied. "Having someone like that." Her gaze shifted briefly toward the others ahead, then back to Magna. "It means you had something worth reaching for."
She did not elaborate, but the thought lingered behind her eyes—of Asta's relentless faith, of Yuno's silent resolve, of paths chosen long before any of them understood the cost. Of her own quiet, unspoken compass.
Dreams, once planted, did not vanish so easily.
The forest gradually thinned, greenery giving way to open space. Ahead, a brick bridge emerged from the haze, its surface worn smooth by years of passage. The fork beyond it was clear enough—one road curling toward the village, the other bending away, back into distance and uncertainty.
As they crossed, the air shifted.
Warmth pressed closer, heavier, clinging to skin. The breeze dulled, no longer refreshing, and beneath the bridge the riverbed lay dry and pale, cracked as though rain had long forgotten it. The forest sounds faded behind them—no birds, no rustling creatures retreating into burrows.
"I feel like I'm walking next to the sun," Inari complained, squinting as he scanned the surroundings, tail flicking irritably. "Not a drop of water anywhere."
Rhein wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "It wasn't like this the last time I passed through this area." His tone sharpened with unease. "This heat feels wrong."
Xierra raised her canteen, taking careful sips before pressing the fabric to her lips. Dryness had already begun to sting. She watched the others discreetly—the sheen of sweat, the tightening shoulders, the way even conversation seemed to falter as they moved farther from the forest's shelter.
Then Magna stopped.
The suddenness of it rippled backward, forcing the rest of them to halt in turn. He set his boar down roughly by the side of the bridge, knuckles white as his fists clenched. His gaze locked ahead, unblinking.
"Senior Magna?" Asta called.
"What is it?" Noelle added, sharp with concern.
There was no answer.
Magna surged forward without warning, breath tearing from his lungs as he ran. The heat pressed down mercilessly, but he didn't slow. Didn't hesitate. Whatever stood before him had already claimed his full attention.
Xierra followed immediately, skirt brushing against dust and stone as she closed the distance. She said nothing, allowing the others to trail behind, drawn by the same growing dread.
When she reached him, she understood.
The village stood ahead—muted, distorted, wrapped in a stillness that felt profoundly wrong. Colors and silhouettes dulled. Shapes warped by heat and silence. It looked less like a place meant for people and more like a memory left too long in the sun.
Magna's breath hitched. His legs trembled, barely holding him upright.
"What the heck is this...?" He ran closer.
Rhein and Asta exchanged a single look—brief, wordless, laden with the same tightening unease—before both released the weight of their boars. The burnt carcasses hit the ground with dull thuds, forgotten in an instant. Without speaking, they fell in behind the others, instincts drawing them forward as Inari slipped ahead, his small form suddenly sharp with purpose.
Magna had already reached the far end of the bridge.
From there, Saussy Village lay fully exposed to their sight—and yet, obscured.
His pace faltered, boots scraping against stone as he slowed to a stop. Sweat traced down his temple, not only from the heat. His brow knitted tightly, eyes twitching as if they refused to accept what they were seeing.
"The village..." Xierra breathed.
The words slipped from her before she realized she had spoken. Her gaze was fixed ahead, heart sinking as the scenery failed to align with the warmth of Magna's stories, with the life he had painted through laughter and memory.
"It's covered in mist...?" Rhein murmured.
The fog loomed in a perfect arc, swelling upward like a sealed horizon. It did not drift or thin or obey the whims of the air. It rested there—dense, unmoving, deliberate. A dome of white pressed down on everything beneath it.
Inari's ears flicked sharply. He lowered himself instinctively, paws braced against the stone, fur along his spine standing rigid. A low growl curled from his chest as he stared into the thickened haze, eyes narrowed as if trying to pierce something just beyond sight.
"I don't like this," he said, voice tight. "There's something wrong here, Master."
Xierra nodded faintly. Her chest felt too tight, breath shallow as she studied the shape of the mist. It wasn't natural. No weather behaved like this—not so precise, not so contained in the dome of white.
The fog curved inward on itself, its edges smooth, its presence suffocating. It was as though the village had been placed beneath glass.
"There's magic involved," she realized, the thought striking hard and cold.
Inari inclined his head once, grim affirmation. Xierra exhaled slowly, thoughts already racing—routes, spells, escape possibilities—only to find every path fogged with uncertainty.
"This place really does have awful weather," Asta said, squinting ahead.
Inari's patience snapped, yet Rhein beat him to it, striking the back of Asta's head with the flat of his hand.
"That's not weather, you idiot," he snapped. "It's magic. Use your eyes."
Noelle scoffed sharply, silver pigtail flicking over her shoulder as she turned away in clear disdain. "Honestly. You're unbelievable."
"What'd I do?!" Asta protested.
"You're hopeless," she emphasized flatly.
Noelle sighed, rubbing her temple, while Rhein pinched the bridge of his nose, irritation etched deep into his expression. He had expected chaos from the Black Bulls—recklessness, maybe—but this was something else entirely.
"A magical mist," Asta repeated more carefully, voice subdued now.
"Yes," Noelle answered, tone stripped of its usual sharpness. Her eyes never left the dome. "And once we step inside, we'll likely lose our sense of direction."
Rhein crossed his arms, jaw tight. "We'll wander. Get separated. That's usually how spells like this work." He glanced toward Magna, whose shoulders had gone rigid. "And something tells me this isn't meant to be a warning. Probably to ward off outsiders."
Xierra pressed a hand beneath her chin, brows drawn together as she searched for meaning in pieces. There were too few clues, too many unknowns, and unaccounted variables. Beside her, Inari's fur bristled further, tension rolling off him in waves she could almost taste—bitter, metallic.
Noelle folded her arms, lips pressed thin. "Even with several Magic Knights, there's no guarantee we'll reach anyone inside."
Concern softened her features, replacing arrogance with something far more human. Xierra noticed. She felt it herself.
They all did.
Magna tilted his head back, eyes tracing the dome's impossible height. It swallowed the sky above Saussy whole. Big enough to drown the forest if it wished.
Magic that could cover an entire village...
His fingers curled slowly at his sides.
Xierra swallowed, her thoughts quietly falling into place alongside the weight in her chest. From everything Magna had shared—each reckless laugh, each memory softened by fondness—there was only one person in Saussy who stood at the center of those stories.
Seyhe wielded Sword Magic.
Which meant this veil, choking the village, had never belonged to him.
Her breath left her in a slow stream. She lifted one hand halfway, fingers hovering uncertainly in the air as if testing the shape of the thought itself, yet her eyes never left the dome of white pressing down on Saussy. "Could this be an attack?" she asked, voice measured, careful—guessing, but no longer doubting.
Inari turned toward her, the usual sharpness in his gaze replaced by something heavier. He gave a single nod. "Yes, it's very likely."
"A group?" Rhein pressed, stepping closer to the edge of the bridge. His hand drifted instinctively toward the hilt at his side while his gaze swept the mist's surface, searching for seams, distortions—anything that might betray the mask it held.
"I sense multiple magic signatures overlapping each other," Inari explained. "Either the villagers fought back... or multiple attackers struck together." His eyes hardened. "Given what we know of the village's strongest mage, I'd wager on the latter."
"I see..." Rhein hummed, letting the sound trail off as silence settled thickly between them. His attention returned fully to the dome, jaw tightening. "Then what do we do now?" he asked. "Call for backup?"
Xierra's gaze drifted from face to face.
Four newly appointed Magic Knights, still smelling faintly of ceremony rather than battle. One senior from the Black Bulls. And Inari—formidable, yes, but bound to her safety above all else.
Calling for reinforcements would have been the sensible choice.
But the village stood smothered before them, mana roiling beneath that unnatural fog, and time felt like something already slipping through their fingers.
Magna pressed his lips together, thoughts racing behind his shades. His eyes flicked over the group in quick succession—Xierra, unfamiliar but composed; Rhein, sharp-tongued and capable; Noelle, volatile magic barely leashed; and Asta—
Asta. Anti-magic.
Magna stilled.
"Hey," he called suddenly, turning on his heel. He strode toward Asta with renewed urgency, planting himself squarely in front of the boy and jabbing a thumb toward the mist. "You. Stupidsta. Cut it."
Asta blinked. "Huh?"
"That sword," Magna insisted, sweeping his arm outward in a broad, commanding gesture that sliced through the air just like the motion he wanted to see. "Use it to cut the mist."
As they stepped closer, the wind shifted violently, howling around them in sharp, icy gusts. The warmth they'd suffered through earlier vanished in an instant, replaced by a creeping cold that gnawed at skin and bone alike.
"Sure thing!" Asta chirped.
"Lower your voice!" Rhein snapped immediately, clapping his hands over his ears with a grimace. "You're going to get us discovered before we even take three steps!"
Xierra winced, memories surfacing unbidden—Castle Town Kikka, startled beasts slinking from alleyways, Yuno's futile attempts to quiet Asta's booming enthusiasm. "I really thought I'd die on the way to the capital," she muttered under her breath.
Asta paused mid-step, frowning as realization dawned. "Wait." He waved one hand dismissively. "That's dumb. You can't cut mist with a sword—!"
"No, you're the dumb one!" Magna roared, veins bulging as disbelief overtook him.
Inari sighed, rubbing his muzzle. "It's magic mist, you fool. Use your anti-magic."
"Oh!" Asta brightened instantly.
Xierra dragged a hand down her face while Noelle and Rhein watched in stunned silence as Asta drew his blade from his grimoire. The sword hummed low and wrong in the air.
He swung.
The mist tore apart like cloth under a blade, dissolving into nothingness. He kept going, carving wide arcs through the fog, laughter spilling from him with every swing. "Take that! And that! And that!"
"What is he yelling about?" Rhein muttered.
"No idea," Magna replied. "Don't mind him. Just keep moving."
They advanced as the path cleared, the village slowly revealing itself—crooked houses, empty streets, trees stripped bare and black against a dull gray sky.
"Good! Keep it up!" Magna called, grimoire hovering at his side.
Inari expanded between Xierra and Rhein, his presence solid and protective as his eyes scanned every shadow.
"You seem to know this place," Noelle remarked quietly.
Magna nodded once. "Left."
Asta cut again—and froze.
They all did.
Mana surged ahead, thick and suffocating.
"Did you feel that?" Magna asked, concerned bleeding through his bravado.
"Yes," Noelle replied, her voice unsteady. The pressure made her limbs tremble, each step heavier than the last.
Rhein grimaced. "The only ones I've felt like this were captains. Or the senior knights."
Cold seeped deeper into their bones.
Inari lowered himself, gold eyes narrowed to slits. "Something's here," he warned. "Stay alert. And for once—keep your voices down."
They nodded as one.
Magna reached out and tapped Asta's shoulder, the motion gentle despite the tension threading through his frame. He pointed ahead, two fingers cutting through the fog-laden air. "Straight ahead," he murmured. "Careful."
Asta nodded, the usual brightness in his expression dimming into focus. He lifted his blade and cleaved forward in one decisive arc. The mist recoiled, tearing apart like frayed cloth before dissolving into nothing—only to begin knitting itself together again at the edges, slow and persistent, as though the village itself were trying to hide what lay within.
"After this," Magna whispered, voice low and uneven, "we should be in the square."
Another swing. Wider this time. Final.
The fog scattered.
And the world seemed to stop breathing.
They stood frozen, eyes widening as one, words dying before they could ever reach their tongues. The village square unfolded before them—not bustling, not alive, but bowed beneath despair.
Villagers knelt in a tight, trembling cluster at its center.
Their clothes hung from them in tatters, smeared with soil and ash, torn at the seams as if they had been dragged through the earth itself. These were not people who lived in luxury—but they were people who lived with dignity. Or had. Now, that dignity lay stripped bare alongside scraped skin and bruised limbs.
Children clung to their parents, fingers digging desperately into worn fabric, faces buried against chests that shook with silent sobs. Mothers wrapped their arms around small, fragile bodies, shoulders hunched as if they could shield them simply by folding inward hard enough. Fathers bowed their heads low, jaws clenched, hands trembling where they rested against the dirt.
None of them looked up.
They didn't dare.
Xierra's breath caught painfully in her throat.
The sound of crying—thin, broken, raw—cut through her like glass. Each wail struck her chest in time with her heartbeat, banging inside her ribs until it felt as though her heart might shatter under the weight of it. She took a step forward without realizing, her fingers curling reflexively at her side.
Her gaze lifted instinctively, following the invisible line of fear that tethered every villager together.
And she saw it.
Above them hovered enormous shards of ice, jagged and translucent, each one glinting faintly despite the dim sky. They loomed like suspended guillotines, easily the size of grown men, their edges sharp enough to steal breath at a glance. They trembled faintly in the air, responding to some unseen will.
Inari's growl deepened into something feral. His fur bristled, standing on end like quills, his body lowering as though ready to spring at a moment's notice.
Xierra's eyes locked onto the shards.
They hovered just inches above bowed heads.
Too close.
It was far too close.
Her grimoire lifted instinctively, pages fluttering as if sensing her rising panic. She swallowed, mind racing, thoughts colliding and shattering before they could fully form.
One wrong move—and the ice would fall.
One wrong move—and blood would stain the stone beneath them.
One wrong move—and an entire village would be lost.
The air grew colder with every heartbeat, frost creeping invisibly across skin and breath turning faintly white. The shards shifted, descending ever so slowly, as if savoring the fear beneath them.
Then a voice cut through the square.
Calm. Detached. Final.
"This is your execution."
The world fractured.
The ice plummeted.
Sound collapsed into itself, a sharp, screaming rupture that split the air like glass beneath a hammer. Above the village, the sky broke open—not with thunder, but with a cruel, crystalline howl. Ice tore free from the heavens, massive shards tumbling end over end, their edges catching the weak daylight and turning it into something lethal and blinding.
They fell fast.
"Oh, no, you don't!"
Magna's voice cut through the panic like a struck match. He surged forward with a feral battle cry, boots tearing up frost-bitten earth as his grimoire snapped open, pages fluttering wildly as if struggling to keep pace with his breath.
Beside and above him, Xierra rode astride the enlarged form of Inari. The fox spirit's body glowed with light, paws barely touching the ground as it bounded ahead of the others. Wind screamed past her ears, carrying the smell of ice and fear and burning mana.
She didn't hesitate.
Magna barely finished inhaling before he barked the incantation, words tumbling out raw and reckless.
"Flame Magic: Explosive Scattershot!"
The air ignited.
Fireballs bloomed into existence midair, spiraling outward in violent arcs. Each sphere dragged a tail of molten gold behind it, streaking upward to meet the falling ice. Explosions rang out—sharp, concussive—but even as shards shattered into glittering fragments, more continued to descend.
There were too many for Magna to handle alone.
Xierra gritted her teeth, breath showing in white puffs as she rushed forward.
Her grimoire thrashed in her hands, pages flipping with frantic urgency before halting—sudden, decisive—on a spread that was inked with a spell—deep and starless indigo. The markings shimmered, unfamiliar and yet achingly close, as if the spell had been waiting for her all along.
She lifted her chin.
Mana surged through her veins, cold and brilliant, steadying her pulse rather than overwhelming it.
"Astral Creation Magic: Night of a Thousand Stars."
The sky answered.
Daylight tore apart like thin cloth. A vast rift unfurled above them, revealing the endless black beyond—the welkin split wide, exposing a sea of distant stars. Starlight poured through the opening, sharp and radiant, bending toward Xierra as if drawn by her will.
Then they fell.
Stars screamed downward, incandescent streaks of silver and blue, colliding with the oncoming ice in resounding bursts. Each impact rang like a bell struck by the cosmos itself. Shards vaporized on contact, reduced to drifting frost and shimmering dust long before they could reach the ground.
Xierra stared, breath shallow, as the portal stretched across the bruised sky. Space itself felt close enough to touch. The spell answered her training—answered her—with a power that left her dizzy.
Magna let out a disbelieving laugh somewhere below. "You're kidding me—!"
Together, fire and starlight tore through the storm.
What ice remained shattered harmlessly above the village, raining down as glittering remnants instead of death. The dust clouds slowly thinned, settling like pale mist over rooftops and trembling fields.
Asta stood frozen, sword half-raised. Noelle's breath hitched in her throat, eyes wide as the last fragments dissolved into light. Rhein didn't move at all, gaze fixed skyward as if afraid the heavens might break again if he blinked.
Below them, the villagers stared.
Some had fallen to their knees without realizing it. Others clutched each other, hands shaking, eyes searching the sky for threats that never came.
"They're... alive."
The word spread in whispers first, then sobs.
Asta was the first to move, sprinting toward Magna and Xierra, relief written openly across his face. Noelle followed, soles brushing frost-dampened ground, while Rhein kept pace beside her.
The villagers' eyes caught on the emblems stitched into their robes—the roaring lion crowned in gold, the bull's head outlined in shadow. Recognition sparked like fire.
"The Magic Knights..."
"They really came!"
Xierra slid down from Inari's back, boots touching earth that still trembled faintly beneath her. Her gaze drifted—and softened.
Children stood near the edges of the crowd, faces streaked with tears, eyes huge and shining. One clutched a cracked toy; another buried their face into a parent's coat, shoulders shuddering.
Her chest tightened.
She swallowed, clearing her throat before emotion could betray her. This wasn't the time. Still, her hands curled briefly at her sides, fingers trembling with something dangerously close to grief.
Rhein noticed. He leaned in, giving her back a gentle pat—grounding, wordless. She exhaled slowly, grateful.
They approached the villagers together. With every step, recognition deepened—especially when eyes landed on Magna.
"Magna?!"
"Magna, it's you! It's really you!"
"Nick!" Magna answered instantly, voice rough with relief as he crouched toward the dirty-blond boy pushing through the crowd. "What the heck happened here?"
Xierra watched the exchange, her heart aching at the way fear still clung to them like frost that refused to melt. She pressed a fist lightly to her chest, steadying herself against the weight of it.
They were scared.
They were small against a world that crushed without mercy.
They were powerless—and they knew it.
The gap between strength and helplessness yawned wide, shaped by status and magic and cruel chance. Xierra felt it keenly, sharper than any shard that had fallen from the sky.
She wondered—quietly, painfully—what it would mean to live without fear.
A world without ranks, without the rigid scaffolding of power. A place where no one had to look skyward in terror, praying for salvation that might never come.
But even as the thought bloomed, it was never spoken.
Without fear, there could be no courage. Without sorrow, no joy. Balance wove everything together, even when it hurt.
Where sorrow did not exist—where laughter threaded itself through every waking hour, and joy came without condition. Xierra had imagined such a place only moments ago, fragile and luminous, like a dream held too tightly.
But dreams broke so easily.
There could be no happiness without grief. No light without something to cast its shadow. The world demanded balance, and it collected its due without mercy.
She noticed the tears first.
They slipped down the villagers' faces one by one, silent and heavy, until her gaze followed their line downward, to the earth. Where Mother Nature hadn't prepared the ground burial for the unfortunate.
Someone lay there, unmoving, half-shrouded by churned frost and trampled soil.
From the corner of her vision, Magna stiffened.
Xierra did not need to see his face to know. Something inside him had caved inward, sudden and violent, like a wall giving way beneath unseen pressure.
They gathered slowly, reverently, forming a broken circle around the fallen man.
Blood soaked the left side of his abdomen, a dark, terrible red that looked almost unreal against the pale ground. It spread in uneven patterns, staining cloth and skin alike. With every passing heartbeat, his complexion leeched of warmth, slipping toward a colorless stillness that no magic could undo.
The mist pressed closer, as if drawn by grief.
Magna's breath caught—sharp, audible. His shoulders trembled once. Then again. Words crowded behind his parted lips, desperate and unspoken. Apologies he never voiced. Gratitude left unfinished. Promises meant for later.
Later never came.
Later never existed.
And later was never given to a man who departed too early.
An unwanted death, yet warned all the same.
He stepped forward.
Time seemed to forget him then. His chest rose, but it did not feel full. The air forced itself into his lungs, acrid and unkind. Behind his tinted lenses, his eyes quaked, wide and glassy, clinging to denial with white-knuckled resolve.
Men didn't cry.
Men endured.
Men stayed standing.
Those rules had been hammered into him long before today. They were supposed to be enough.
So why did his chest feel like it was collapsing?
Why did his stomach feel like it was turning around, his knuckles weak, and his gaze hazy?
The pain that buckled his knees was nothing compared to the ache tearing through his heart. He fell beside the man, hands grasping rough fabric, shaking his shoulders as if force alone could drag him back.
"Old man—!!" His voice cracked. "Hey! Wake up!"
Again.
Louder.
"Old man...!"
The mist swallowed the cry.
This was the man they were meant to deliver boars to.
The chief they were meant to relieve during patrol.
The man who had stood at the village's front when danger came.
He had been Magna's shelter before he ever learned how to build one himself. A steady presence. A voice that scolded and praised in equal measure. Strong hands that taught him how to throw a punch, not out of anger—but out of purpose.
He had given Magna reasons to fight.
And now—
Now he was gone.
His beginning, his turning point, and his support—Seyhe was gone.
Xierra stood frozen, breath shallow, fingers curling into her palms. Death was not something she had truly faced before. It had always been distant, theoretical—something spoken of in hushed tones or written into tombstones in the graveyard built just a few fields from Hage.
This was different.
This was close enough to touch.
Her chest tightened painfully as sorrow welled up for a man she had never met. A single tear escaped before she could stop it, slipping down her cheek. She caught herself, forcing the rest back with a shaky inhale.
She didn't want to cry yet.
Not before she understood.
They were Magic Knights.
They were supposed to protect.
Yet they had arrived one second too late, and a life had been taken all the same.
The word death felt strange on her tongue—foreign, yet hauntingly familiar. Beside her, Inari's tail stilled. The fox spirit lowered his head, ears drooping as he closed his eyes in quiet mourning.
Xierra lifted her gaze.
The sky had sealed itself again where the shards once fell, but the mist lingered, thick and watchful. Somewhere within it, an enemy hid—perhaps more than one.
Inari, she called—not aloud, but with the steady pull of intent.
Yes, Master.
The connection thrummed faintly beneath her skin, familiar and grounding. Xierra did not look away from the scene before her as she answered, her voice measured even within the confines of her thoughts.
Investigate. Find the source of this anomaly. We can't afford any more deaths.
A pause—brief, resolute.
Affirmative, Master.
Only then did she move, her hand lifting to rest against the crown of Inari's head. Her fingers pressed into warm fur, lingering just long enough to steady herself. Inari leaned into the touch for a fleeting heartbeat before his form dissolved soundlessly into the thinning mist, as if he had never been there at all.
Xierra watched the space he left behind longer than necessary.
Then she turned back.
Magna was still on his knees.
The earth beneath him bore the weight of his grief—compressed, scarred, unmoving. Xierra's eyes narrowed as a chill crawled up her spine, not from the cold air, but from something else. Something wrong. The mist felt heavier now, less passive. It pressed against her senses like a held breath.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Fuegoleon wouldn't have sent them into something like this blindly. Neither would Leopold. A patrol mission was meant to be routine—an introduction for recruits, not a massacre waiting to unfold.
They wouldn't have known.
Her gaze swept the surroundings, sharp and deliberate, ensuring Inari was well out of sight. To deceive an enemy, one first had to lower one's guard. Inari carried no mana signature—nothing more than a summoned companion tied to a young Magic Knight. Harmless, forgettable.
Perfect.
A broken voice cut through the haze.
"Old man..."
Another followed, quieter, heavier.
"The mayor... he—he tried to protect us..."
Nick stood near the body, fists clenched at his sides. His shoulders shook as he fought something far too large for his small frame. The effort didn't last long. Tears spilled freely, carving paths through the grime on his cheeks before dripping onto his hands. His clothes—already worn thin by poverty—were stained with something that would never wash out.
Loss.
Grief.
Sorrow.
He dragged in a breath that stuttered halfway through his chest.
"Grandpa," he sobbed, voice cracking as he forced the words out. "They came. The Magic Knights... they came." His lips trembled into something that almost resembled a smile. "Your prayers were answered."
Xierra's heart clenched painfully.
A person can just... disappear that easily?
The thought brushed against her mind, unbidden—echoed by others nearby. Fear had a way of loosening thoughts, letting them drift where they shouldn't. She lowered her head in silent respect, eyes closing briefly as she acknowledged the life that had been lost.
Seyhe's stillness felt unreal.
No one had expected this. Not here. Not on their first mission to a quiet, secluded village tucked away from the kingdom's turbulence.
The mist shifted.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
The sound came without warning—sharp and intrusive, as if time itself had chosen this moment to make itself known. Xierra's eyes snapped open. She turned her head slightly, senses flaring as the noise sharpened, aligning with subtle movements nearby.
Footsteps.
Magna surged to his feet.
"Are you the bastards who did this?!" he roared, fury ripping free at last.
Xierra inhaled slowly, grounding herself before stepping forward. She straightened, her posture composed but unyielding. Her voice cut through the tension, calm in a way that burned.
"No need to ask."
Her gaze locked onto the figures emerging from the retreating mist. Her hands curled at her sides, knuckles blanching as she reined herself in. There was fire in her chest—coiled, contained, dangerous.
"They're the ones behind this," she concluded, tone steady and sharp. "You can tell by how calm they are."
Rhein let out a short, humorless snort, eyes never leaving the newcomers. "Like you aren't, Xierra."
She didn't look at him.
"Oh, don't worry," she replied softly. "There is always a storm coming after this."
They stepped fully into view.
One man stood at the front—his face stark and unsettling in its emptiness. Where brows should have been, there was nothing. A long scar carved its way from his forehead down to his left cheek, pale against his skin like an old, cruel memory.
The others mattered less.
They were cloaked in deep blue robes, hoods drawn low, their identities swallowed by shadow. A collective presence rather than individuals—silent, composed, watching.
Xierra felt it then.
Confirmation.
Inari.
Yes, Master.
Her eyes did not waver as she gave the final command. I'll leave them to you.
A pulse of certainty answered her.
Affirmative, Master.
The scarred man extended his arm with deliberate leisure, eyes lowering to the watch strapped neatly against his wrist. The soft, mechanical ticking seeped into the silence, threading itself between the muffled sobs of children and the shallow breaths of villagers bracing for the inevitable.
Tick.
Tock.
He lifted his head again, gaze vacant and untroubled, as if he were addressing an inconvenience rather than a group of living souls.
"How rude," he said mildly. "You've thrown off our schedule."
Xierra's brows twitched.
Of all the things she had expected—rage, cruelty, sadistic delight—this was not one of them. An enemy who cared for twisted punctuality felt profoundly wrong, like a fractured reflection of humanity. Her instincts screamed to act, to strike first, but she held herself still. One reckless move would condemn everyone standing behind them.
The man raised his grimoire with unhurried precision.
"You will all be executed in ten seconds."
The words landed softly, almost politely. Approximate. Exact. There was no malice in his tone, no pleasure.
Something about that chilled Xierra deeper than the mist ever could.
She studied him closely now. The emptiness in his stare was not ignorance—it was intent. Whatever he was, whatever twisted creed guided him, emotion had long been discarded. And yet—
Bloodlust bled from him in waves.
It crawled over her skin, sharp and suffocating, pressing against her senses until her lungs felt tight. He glanced at his watch again, lips barely moving.
"Correction," he said. "Three seconds. Everyone dies."
Mana surged.
A colossal shard of ice manifested before them, forming with terrifying speed. It dwarfed the earlier ones, its half-spherical mass gleaming with lethal clarity. A sharpened tip angled forward like a spear aimed directly at their lives. It was large enough to sweep through the Magic Knights and the villagers alike—no discrimination, no mercy.
Xierra moved on instinct, planting her feet firmly into the earth. Her eyes traced the structure of the ice, searching desperately for a fault, a fracture—anything. The shard hummed with condensed mana, its surface smooth and unyielding.
Four new Magic Knights.
One senior.
Too many lives were depending on them.
The man lifted his palm, hovering it behind the shard, and with a subtle motion—
It launched.
Time stopped moving.
Xierra's thoughts scattered like startled birds. The world slowed to a crawl, every heartbeat thunderous in her ears. The villagers were behind them—Noelle and Rhein guarding the rear, Magna beside her at the front.
Where—
Asta.
Her breath caught.
He appeared in front of them in a blur of motion, sword raised, teeth clenched with raw determination. With a single, furious swing, his blade cleaved through the shard.
The ice split cleanly in half.
It shattered midair, fragments dissolving into harmless frost before they could reach the ground.
Magna exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging as relief rushed through him. His breathing was uneven now, heavy—his earlier spell had drained him more than he let on. Xierra noted it quickly, clinically, even as guilt flickered at the thought.
He wouldn't last long at this pace.
Her gaze flicked back. Rhein. Noelle.
Fire would synchronize seamlessly with her magic. Water, too—but it would require recalibration, a shift in approach. And Asta...
She didn't know what would happen if their powers intertwined. Anti-magic was a wild variable—unpredictable, dangerous.
Her fingers tapped against her chin as she weighed the possibilities.
Behind them, fear rippled through the villagers. Children crouched low, hands clamped over their heads. Parents wrapped trembling arms around small bodies, whispering prayers into hair damp with sweat and tears.
Xierra winced as their thoughts brushed against her mind. The thought for safety, the hope for young lives to be spared in exchange for theirs.
Her jaw tightened.
No.
That wouldn't do at all.
She turned sharply, senses flaring as another surge of mana coalesced ahead. Asta stood firm, sword gripped tight, eyes blazing with defiance. The air crystallized once more as another shard rapidly took shape. It was larger, denser.
Then Asta charged.
He leapt, blade raised overhead, muscles straining as he hurled himself toward the ice without hesitation.
Xierra's eyes widened.
There—an indentation. A flaw forming too low, too narrow.
Her heart lurched.
No—
He wouldn't reach the core in time.
Judging the arc of his jump, she knew—he'd strike near the tip.
The worst possible place.
Her grimoire snapped open at her side, pages fluttering wildly as she calculated trajectories in a breathless instant. Mana gathered around her fingertips, sharp and urgent.
Please, she thought fiercely, already preparing to move. Don't let this fall apart now.
"Astral Magic: Earthshine Waltz!"
Moonlit crescents burst forth at Xierra's command, pale and luminous, spinning through the air like disciplined dancers answering a silent rhythm. They struck the sharpened ice with precise intent—not to obliterate, but to temper. The violent mass shuddered as its density collapsed inward, fractures blooming across its surface just enough to dull its killing edge.
She could have cleaved it apart entirely.
She chose not to.
Mana was a finite promise, and she trusted the boy already airborne to keep his.
Asta landed squarely before the attack, boots skidding against frost-laced stone. He didn't spare a thought for his failed descent from above. With a sharp breath and a guttural yell, he swung again and again, blade howling as it shattered the weakened ice into a spray of lethal fragments.
"Rhein—!" Xierra called.
He was already moving.
Rhein stepped forward, crimson mana flaring violently at his heels. Heat rippled outward from him in controlled bursts, each snap of fire catching a flying shard midair. The ice hissed, shrieked, then vanished in bursts of steam before it could reach the villagers. He pivoted once, twice—placing himself deliberately between danger and the children behind them.
"Try aiming next time," he scoffed, voice sharp and elevated, though his stance never wavered. "I'm not in the mood to clean up after sloppy executions of the Black Bulls."
Despite the bite of his words, his eyes flicked back—checking, counting, making sure no one was hurt.
Only then did Asta still.
His eyes had been shut through it all. When he finally opened them, something fierce ignited in their green depths—raw, unyielding.
"I won't forgive this!!" he shouted, voice cracking the air as he planted his feet again, sword drawn back into a ready guard.
Xierra moved without thinking, closing the distance between them. Her grimoire hovered close, pages fluttering softly as her magic settled into a calm, vigilant hum. Ahead, the enemy had not moved.
He hadn't even stood.
The scarred man sat where he was, posture composed, expression untouched by the chaos that had nearly claimed dozens of lives. His gaze slid over them with detached calculation, as though assessing pieces on a board.
Xierra lowered her chin, eyes fixed on him.
"How could you do something so cruel?" she murmured—not loudly, not for him, but for herself.
The sky reflected dimly in her eyes, once bright with open wonder, now clouded with something heavier. Disappointment. Resolve.
She had seen cruelty before. Heard of it, studied it. But witnessing it—measured, timed, scheduled—left a bitter taste she couldn't swallow.
They weren't here to raze the village, she realized slowly. Not yet. The destruction was deliberate, restrained.
Which meant they wanted something else.
The scarred man finally reacted—exhaling softly, pale vapor curling from his lips before fading into the mist. He offered no response to Asta's fury, no acknowledgement of their resistance.
Others, however, stirred.
"We weren't informed that Magic Knights would interfere," one of the robed figures spoke at last.
The scarred man glanced at his watch again.
Tick.
Tock.
Another stepped forward, hood drawn tighter, fingers brushing his grimoire. "Is this an unscheduled patrol? We weren't informed."
"And how did they breach the mist barrier?" a third added. "That shouldn't have been possible."
"The Black Bulls..." someone muttered.
"Oh, now you're thinking?" Rhein snapped, sparks flaring around his shoulders as his irritation spiked. "Took you long enough. What—too busy counting seconds to notice you messed up?"
His tone was sharp, unapologetically haughty, the unmistakable edge of nobility bleeding through. Yet even as he barked back, he shifted subtly—placing himself closer to Noelle, shielding her flank without comment.
Xierra barely reacted. Her attention had locked onto the scarred man again.
"Crude heretics," he mused aloud, voice smooth and distant as he looked at the Black Bulls. "Magic Knights who don't belong."
His gaze flicked briefly. "And the Crimson Lion Kings..."
Xierra met his stare evenly, refusing to flinch.
"I've heard," he continued, eyes narrowing, "that some girl from the countryside was welcomed by every squad. Yet she chose a lion's den over the sun's golden seat."
A pause.
"What a shame."
The words struck a nerve—not because they were new, but because they were familiar.
Xierra had heard them before. Whispers trailing behind her steps during the entrance exams. Murmurs when she turned down offers others would have begged for. Even William Vangeance himself had paused the proceedings, surprise clear when she made her choice.
The Crimson Lion Kings stood in the middle of the ranks. Neither revered nor reviled.
And still—she had chosen them.
Because she believed in what they could become.
Because she believed a Wizard King—or Queen—could rise from anywhere. From the top, the middle... even the bottom.
Because she was proud to stand under Fuegoleon's banner.
Inari's voice snarled through her mind, sharp and feral.
Shame? The only shame here is that he's still breathing.
She ignored him, though she could feel his restraint trembling at the edge of violence.
Her answer was simple. Quiet. Unyielding.
No regrets.
The scarred man looked away, interest evaporating as quickly as it had formed. He tapped his watch once more, gaze returning to the ticking face.
"Dealing with you," he said flatly, "would be inefficient."
The mist thickened, curling low around his feet.
"What a shame."