"Steel Creation Magic: Fierce Spiral Lance!!"
The spell answered with brutal immediacy.
Steel tore itself from mana and intent alike, spiraling into existence with a shrill cry that cut through the air. The lance twisted forward in a violent corkscrew, layers of sharpened metal coiling around a singular, merciless point.
Light skidded across its surface as it surged ahead, grinding sparks from the stone beneath its path. The force behind it compressed the space before Klaus, pushing dust outward in a sudden, violent rush—as if the dungeon itself recoiled from the blow.
The lance did not simply fly.
It hunted.
Mars stood unmoved.
His expression remained carved from stillness, eyes fixed on the oncoming steel without alarm, without hesitation. That calm—so utterly detached from the devastation racing toward him—sent a chill racing down Xierra's spine.
Something was wrong.
"He's not fazed?" Xierra breathed, her voice thin with unease as her gaze darted across Mars' posture. His shoulders remained relaxed. His grip on the crystal sword never tightened. There was no shift in footing, no instinctive flinch. "Does he have something under his sleeves...?"
Her legs buckled as she staggered back against Klaus' steel barrier, palms scraping cold metal as she fought to remain upright. To one side, Yuno struggled to keep himself standing, breath ragged, mana flickering weakly around him. Behind them, Inari hovered close to Mimosa, flames snapping low and restless as healing magic struggled to keep pace with the damage already done.
Xierra clenched her jaw and forced her focus back onto Mars.
She watched.
Every twitch of muscle. Every minute shift of breath.
The world narrowed.
Time seemed to stretch thin, pulled taut as the spinning lance closed the distance. The roar of the battlefield dulled, replaced by the pounding of her own pulse. Klaus' attack slowed in her vision, each second dragged out as if suspended in glass.
Why isn't he moving?
Tension wrapped tight around her chest, coiling until it hurt to breathe.
From the edge of her sight, she caught Yuno's attention shifting—his eyes flicking past her toward Klaus, lips parting as his brow creased. He saw it too. The silence before impact felt deliberate. Ominous.
Klaus dug his stance deeper, boots biting into ancient brick as he leaned into the spell. One hand thrust forward, fingers spread wide, veins standing out along his arm as he poured more mana into the lance. The steel shrieked louder, spirals tightening as its speed doubled in a final, desperate push.
Then—
Mars' grimoire fluttered.
That was all.
Pages turned with a whisper too faint for most ears to catch.
—But no sound, no matter how slight, escaped the Whisperer.
Mana shifted.
The air twisted.
"Mineral Creation Magic: Talos Doll."
Xierra's eyes widened. "Senior Klaus, watch out—!!"
Her warning tore free with urgency, raw and sharp, but it arrived a breath too late.
The lance struck.
Steel met crystal—
—and did not meet Mars.
In the blink between heartbeats, Mars' form vanished, replaced by a crystal replica forged in his exact likeness. The steel point drove straight through the copy's outstretched palm, shattering it into glittering shards that burst outward like splintered ice. Cracks spiderwebbed across the arm, crawling fast and violently—
Yet the copy did not fall.
It stood strong and steady—sturdier than Klaus' steeled attack.
"What—?!" Klaus gasped, shock ripping through his composure as his eyes snapped wide.
He had heard Xierra's call, but he hadn't understood—not until now. Not until the real Mars stood several steps away, untouched, while the false body absorbed the full force of his strongest spell.
The realization struck too late.
The crystal copy moved.
Its legs bent, then launched it forward in a blur of refracted light, arms spread wide as it closed the distance with terrifying speed. Xierra slashed her hand through the air, forcing crescent after crescent of light forward despite the scream in her muscles. Yuno followed, wind blades ripping loose in uneven arcs.
The attacks struck.
They did nothing.
The copy barreled through them and drove a crystalline fist straight at Klaus.
Steel screamed as he raised a shield just in time.
The impact detonated through his arms, a shockwave rattling bone and tearing a strangled sound from his throat. His boots slid backward, carving lines into the stone as his shield bowed inward under the sheer force.
A sharp, electric sting shot up his hands, numbing his fingers instantly.
It was powerful—far more than he had anticipated.
"Rrgh—!!"
Pain flared hot and immediate, tearing through his forearms and into his shoulders as the shield was held by sheer will alone. Klaus' teeth clenched so hard his jaw trembled, vision swimming as the weight of the blow threatened to crush him outright.
And the crystal copy drew back its arm—
ready to strike again.
The crystal copy lunged forward with brutal precision, its movements stripped of hesitation or mercy.
A second strike slammed into Klaus' shield, the impact driving him back another step as another wave of pain ripped through his arms. His muscles screamed again in protest, hands shaking as numbness crawled up his fingers, yet he still held firm—steel grinding against crystal, sparks scattering across the dungeon floor like dying stars.
Xierra barely had time to react.
A wave of jagged minerals surged toward her feet, erupting from the ground with violent force. She twisted away on instinct, boots skidding as she threw herself aside. The sudden movement sent agony tearing through her right ankle, her breath breaking into a sharp gasp as she barely escaped being skewered. She hit the ground hard, rolling as fragments slammed down where she had stood a moment before.
"Kgh—!!"
Klaus was alone now.
The crystal copy pressed forward relentlessly, raining blows against his shield. Each hit rattled his bones, his knees threatening to buckle under the assault. He could feel it—his mana thinning, his strength draining faster than he could replenish it. Still, he refused to yield, jaw clenched tight as he braced himself for another strike.
Xierra forced herself upright, vision swimming. She wanted to help—needed to—but another barrage surged between her and Klaus, cutting her off completely. The crystals came too fast, too close. She stumbled back, heart pounding, lungs burning as she fought simply to stay alive.
Then a gust tore through the chaos.
Wind blades slashed across the oncoming minerals, shattering them midair. Xierra staggered into the sudden clearing and nearly collapsed—only to feel a steady presence beside her.
Yuno.
He stood firm despite his own exhaustion, shoulders rising and falling with each breath as he sent another current forward, dispersing the remnants of the attack. His hand hovered close, not quite touching her, as if ready to catch her should she fall.
She wheezed, struggling to draw in air, and leaned just enough to steady herself.
But there was no time.
The air shifted violently.
A massive shadow swept over them as Mars' crystal sword came down in a heavy arc, aimed straight for the space they shared. The weight of it crushed the air, the descent carrying the inevitability of an executioner's blade.
Xierra and Yuno moved on instinct alone.
They barely escaped.
The sword slammed into the ground where they had stood, stone exploding outward in a violent spray. Yuno leapt aside, dragging his winds with him as they surged up to shield them both. Xierra rolled away just in time, pain screaming through her ankle as debris crashed down around her—only spared by the barrier of wind that deflected the worst of it.
She gasped, chest heaving, silently grateful as the last of the rubble skidded harmlessly away.
"Yuno—are you all right?" Her voice shook as she glanced at him, fear threading through every syllable.
The sword rotated again, crystals grinding as it redirected toward her.
She gathered what little mana she could, stars circling her with light flickering weakly around her form.
"Yeah." Yuno's answer came out clipped and thin, torn from a chest that barely had air left to spare.
He offered nothing else.
His focus splintered instead—eyes darting from Mars' towering form to Xierra's unsteady footing, never lingering too long on either. Each time her weight faltered, each time her injured ankle betrayed her with a sharp, stuttering step, the air responded before she could. Winds curled low and precise, bracing her balance, nudging her just enough to keep her upright, just enough to keep her alive.
It was instinct. Protective. Silent.
Xierra noticed.
She felt it in the way the pressure around her legs shifted, in the subtle resistance that caught her before the ground could. She saw it in his gaze, too—sharp with calculation, tight with something dangerously close to concern. He never said her name. Never slowed to check on her.
He didn't have to.
She gave a single nod in acknowledgment, teeth set hard as she turned back toward the looming blade, its crystalline edge catching what little light remained.
This had passed the edge of danger.
This was the point where hesitation meant death.
"Astral Creation Magic—" The words scraped from her throat as her grimoire trembled violently. "Night of a Thousand Stars!"
The air in front of them tore open, revealing a fragment of night itself. Darkness spilled outward, studded with countless burning points of light. The stars descended in a radiant torrent, colliding with the massive sword as if the heavens themselves had fallen.
Each impact burned deep, piercing holes through the crystalline surface. For a breathless moment, the blade slowed—its momentum faltering, the dungeon bathed in silver and blue.
Time stretched thin.
Hope flared.
Then the sword healed.
Minerals flowed back into place, sealing every wound left by the stars. The blade regained its form as if it had never been damaged at all.
Xierra's breath hitched. Yuno's eyes widened, horror reflected starkly in their amber depths.
This couldn't be happening.
No matter what they threw at it, the sword refused to break—refused to die. It swung again and again, every arc another sentence passed upon them. Mars' hollow gaze followed their movements, unreadable, his presence looming like death given form.
Everything they did felt futile.
And yet, they stayed.
They had to.
Their lives hung by a thread stretched impossibly thin, trembling with every step they took. Mars wielded power that dwarfed their own, his mana unyielding, unending. Even now—when they were bruised, gasping, wavering—he still had more to give.
It was both breathtaking and terrifying how life and death wavered so close together, suspended before their eyes as though Fate itself had grown curious—and cruel. As if it hovered somewhere unseen, amused by their struggle, watching them burn through the last of their strength with a careless, knowing smile.
Or perhaps Fate wasn't watching at all.
Perhaps it had turned away the moment their paths crossed with Mars, uninterested in whatever fragile worth their lives carried. Perhaps they had never been anything more than background noise in a universe that refused to pause.
It felt like a game.
A cruel, merciless game balanced on the edge of survival and oblivion.
Still, Yuno stepped forward.
He moved back in sync with Xierra, positioning himself between her and the blade. His grimoire floated before him as he drew in what mana he could muster, muscles tensing as the spell took shape.
"Wind Magic: Crescent Moon Sickle!!"
The wind howled.
A crescent of compressed air formed before him, sharpened to a deadly edge. With a decisive motion, Yuno swung his arm, sending the sickle racing forward. It ignored the massive sword entirely, carving straight toward Mars.
The impact forced the Diamond mage backward, boots scraping against stone as crystals surged up around his heels to stop his slide.
Xierra braced herself—expecting blood.
None came.
Instead, a metallic clang rang out as Mars straightened. The pale haze around his chest dispersed, revealing solid armor formed seamlessly over his body, minerals layered and refined into an unbreakable shell.
His expression never changed.
"Mineral Magic: Nemean Armor."
Xierra's eyes widened—not with dread, not with caution—but with a dangerous spark that cut straight through the exhaustion weighing on her bones. The dimness that had clung to her earlier thoughts cracked apart, replaced by something sharp and vivid. Her lips curved upward, slow at first, then unmistakably bright, carrying a thrill that bordered on reckless.
This opponent wasn't like the rest.
The pressure in the air, the density of magic folding in on itself, the way Mars stood unmoved by attacks that should have torn lesser mages apart—it all sent a pulse of exhilaration through her chest. Not joy. Not confidence.
Challenge.
The danger didn't repel her. It pulled her closer, daring her to keep up.
A flicker of gold darted away from the rear line.
Inari materialized beside Mimosa only long enough to ensure the healer was shielded behind stone and wind alike. Her breathing had steadied, her mana stable. Safe enough—for now. The fox didn't linger. He turned sharply, tails snapping behind him as he bounded back toward the chaos where crystal light and starlit magic collided.
"You always get like this," he was now beside Xierra, the brightness in his voice filled with knowing amusement. Eyes shining, brain halfway gone. "If you're going to flirt with death, at least do it with style."
His tone then shifted, sharpening. "Heads up, Master. This isn't despair—you're slipping into momentum. Don't let it swallow you whole."
"Great," Xierra muttered under her breath, forcing a crooked grin as another shard whistled past her shoulder. "So this is character development. Almost dying again."
Mars' gaze locked onto Yuno first, cold and dissecting, amber meeting amber in a silent clash of will. Then—slowly—his attention slid to Xierra.
It was as though something in him paused.
That something was not a surprise. Not caution.
Recognition.
Her expression met his without retreat. There was no tremor in her stance, no flinch in her stare—only that unsettling delight burning behind her eyes. The kind that suggested she was already rewriting the outcome in her head.
Mars narrowed his eyes, voice cutting cleanly through the din. "Your magic doesn't work on me."
The words landed like a verdict, final and unyielding. Around him, crystal dust hovered, obedient, gleaming like sharpened snowfall frozen mid-descent. His sword thrummed, alive with density and purpose—matter pressed into certainty, weight given intent.
Mars did not advance.
He did not need to.
The battlefield bent toward him regardless.
Another wave came without warning. Crystal rose from the shattered floor as if the earth itself had decided to bare its teeth. Yuno reacted first, wind tearing forward in a broad sweep, carving a narrow passage through the oncoming surge. The effort dragged a sharp breath from his chest. His stance wavered, boots scraping against stone as his balance faltered for half a second too long.
Xierra stumbled beside him, ankle screaming in protest. She caught herself on instinct alone, stars flickering to life around her palms, their glow uneven, strained. They fell like burning fragments of a broken sky, boring through crystal just long enough to keep it from swallowing them whole.
Heat cut across the cold brilliance.
Inari surged ahead in a blaze of gold and ember, flames rolling from his jaws in furious arcs. Crystal met fire and lost its clarity, sagging and warping, shedding its lethal edge. The fox twisted midair, landing beside Klaus with practiced ease, flames spiraling outward to reinforce the senior's shield.
Klaus braced himself, boots dug deep, shield ringing with impact as the crystal copy struck again. His arm trembled under the weight, muscles burning, teeth clenched hard enough to draw blood. Still, he held.
Inari spared a sharp glance over his shoulder.
Mimosa stood further back, hands glowing as she worked tirelessly, her brow knit with worry. She was still standing. Still breathing.
Good.
Another crash rattled the dungeon.
Yuno staggered as a blade grazed past his shoulder, crystal shaving the air close enough to sting. Xierra grabbed his sleeve, grounding them both as the floor split open where he'd been moments before. For a heartbeat, they leaned into each other, breath mingling, exhaustion heavy between them.
Minerals glittered everywhere—beautiful, merciless. Light fractured across every surface, turning the battlefield into a cathedral of death, each facet reflecting their struggle at them. Life moved here only because it refused to stop.
They pushed forward anyway.
Spell after spell tore free from them, blades of wind screaming through crystal, stars crashing down in incandescent rain. Fire roared. Steel rang.
Nothing changed.
Mars remained where he stood.
Blades followed blades, summons piled atop summons. Gales rose in fury only to be swallowed by an ocean of mana that did not thin, did not falter. Power met power, and only one side paid the price.
Their breaths turned ragged, white in the chilled air. Klaus dropped to one knee at last, shield scraping against stone as he fought to keep it raised. Yuno bent forward, hands on his thighs, lungs burning as he dragged in air that refused to satisfy. Even Inari landed hard, flames dimmer now, tails lashing with irritation.
Xierra stood shaking, legs unsteady, vision blurring at the edges.
Everything they did slid off Mars like water over polished stone.
None was given.
Everything was taken.
Sweat ran down Xierra's temple. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, fingers trembling, eyes never leaving Mars. He had not shifted his footing. Not once. As if the space he occupied belonged to him alone, immutable.
The mineral sword loomed beside him, flawless. Untouched. Proud.
Her jaw tightened.
Where did we fail?
The question gnawed at her, sharp and relentless. Had they trained wrong? Missed a truth buried beneath effort and repetition? Was strength alone never meant to be enough?
Her thoughts drifted—unbidden, aching—to another battlefield entirely.
To Asta, grinning through bruises, dragging himself upright again and again, no matter how many times he fell. To relentless motion. To refuse. To a will that did not calculate odds or measure loss, only chose to stand once more.
Her fingers curled slowly.
Maybe that was it.
Not a power that overwhelmed.
But resolve that simply would not stay down.
—only to land that one hit.
.
.
.
The memory surfaced without warning, slipping into her thoughts the way sunlight bled through closed eyelids. Not sharp, not intrusive—just there, warm and stubborn, refusing to be pushed aside. The present battlefield blurred at its edges, minerals and bloodshed dimming as something older took its place. A time when the world was smaller, when scraped knees and bruised pride were the worst of their losses, and when defeat had never meant stop.
She remembered the heat of that day, the way the air had trembled with careless laughter and frustration in equal measure. How the wind had never been gentle, even back then. How it knocked one of them down again and again, only for him to rise with dirt on his clothes and fire in his eyes. There had been no strategy, no refinement—just stubborn resolve, loud and unyielding, daring the world to try harder.
It was that image that steadied her now. The certainty that even if the odds mocked them, even if every attempt seemed pointless, persistence would carve its way through impossibility. Asta had taught them that without meaning to—that giving up was the only true loss. As long as they stood back up, as long as they kept moving, something would eventually break.
With the winds spiraling wildly around Asta's small frame, the air itself seemed to seize him by the shoulders and throw him back without mercy. The sudden surge lifted him clean off the ground, his boots scraping uselessly at the grass as the force carried him away.
"Agwaaaahhh!!" Asta yelped, eyes snapping open so wide they looked ready to pop out. His arms pinwheeled in pure instinct, fingers grasping at nothing as the world tilted. For a heartbeat, he was nothing but a blur of limbs and panic—
Then he hit the ground.
The impact knocked the breath straight out of him, his back slamming into the earth with a heavy thud that rattled the surrounding grass and sent a tremor through the soil beneath. Dry dirt and crushed blades of green burst upward in a hazy cloud, sunlight catching in the particles as they drifted and slowly sank back down.
Asta lay there for a moment, stunned.
Then he groaned, rolling onto his side with exaggerated suffering, one hand clutching his lower back as he rubbed at his sore backside. His face twisted into a dramatic grimace, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut as if the pain had personally offended him.
"Owww... that one didn't count..." he complained, voice muffled against the ground, as if sheer willpower might rewrite what everyone had just witnessed.
From a few steps away, worried eyes locked onto him.
Yuno stood stiffly, wind still curling faintly around his shoulders, his expression carefully neutral—but his gaze betrayed him. Concern sat there, unhidden. Xierra stood beside him, hands on her hips, watching Asta struggle back into a sitting position.
"Let's stop this training, Asta," Yuno suggested at last. His voice stayed calm, but the tension beneath it was obvious. "You've taken enough hits for today."
Xierra nodded along, brows knitting as she tipped her head back toward the sky. The sun sat low and bloated, an unrelenting eye that refused to rest, staining the clouds with molten gold and deep crimson. Evening had crept in on quiet feet, shadows stretching longer across the field, yet the heat clung stubbornly to their skin as if the day itself refused to let go.
"It's already getting late," she added, swiping the back of her hand across her damp brow. Sweat slicked her temple, her clothes heavy against her shoulders. "And the sun's still trying to cook us alive. We should head back."
Yuno drew in a breath, clearly ready to agree—
Only for Asta to rocket upright, dirt still clinging to his clothes, that thin branch locked tight in his grip like it was a promise he refused to break.
"I'm not done yet!!" he shouted, voice cracking with raw insistence. "I'm not quitting until I hit you, Yuno!!"
Xierra dropped onto the grass with a tired flop, the blades flattening beneath her weight. She crossed her legs and tipped her head back, staring at the sky through half-lidded eyes. "You already hit me, though," she muttered, irritation dulled by exhaustion. "Isn't that enough?"
She propped her elbow on her knee and let her cheek sink into her palm, words dragging as fatigue finally caught up to her. "I wanna go home and bathe already..."
"That's not enough!!" Asta fired back instantly, not even hesitating.
"Huh?! Come on!" Xierra squeezed her eyes shut, frustration bleeding through her voice. "I'm tired! I wanna shower! We all stink!"
"I need to hit both of you!!"
The air stilled.
Cicadas buzzed somewhere in the distance. The wind slowed, brushing past them in a lazy sweep.
"...Why?"
Xierra released a long, weary breath and let her eyes fall shut once more, a faint hum slipping past her lips as she waited. She already knew he wouldn't offer anything sensible—only something stubborn, honest, and impossibly Asta.
"This is training, isn't it?" Asta finally blurted out, breath still uneven as he tightened his grip on the branch. The wood creaked faintly under his fingers, knuckles pale with effort. "I gotta be able to hit both of you if I wanna call it a day."
There was no cleverness to it. No strategy. Just that blunt, unwavering resolve burning in his eyes, as if the thought had rooted itself there and refused to move.
Xierra cracked one eye open and leveled him with a flat stare, unimpressed and exhausted all at once.
"...what kind of logic is that?"
Her words came out dry, but the sharpness didn't last. She let out a slow sigh, shoulders dropping as the tension seeped from her frame. The frustration melted away, replaced by something warmer—something familiar. A smile curved at her lips before she could stop it, fond and faintly amused.
Of course, he'd say something like that.
She pushed herself up from the grass, joints protesting as she brushed stray blades and dust from her pants. Stepping closer, she stopped beside Yuno, leaning forward just a little, hands laced behind her back. Her grin widened, eyes catching the last light of the sinking sun, bright with renewed spark.
"Then fight me one more time," she said, voice light but daring, gaze locked on him. "After you manage to hit Yuno."
Both boys went still.
Yuno blinked, surprise flickering across his face as he turned to look at her. Asta stared for a heartbeat longer, as if processing the challenge—then his face split into a grin so wide it was almost blinding.
"You're on!" he shouted, pumping his fist with unabashed excitement, the fatigue forgotten entirely as if the promise of one more fight had reignited him from the inside out.
And despite the heat, the exhaustion, and the aching muscles—
Neither of them could bring themselves to say no.
After accepting Xierra's bold challenge, Asta straightened with renewed fire, planting his feet into the trampled grass. Asta adjusted his grip on the branch, shoulders squared, and knees bent in a stance that was serviceable at best.
Awkward, a little too stiff, and clearly borrowed from half-remembered lessons and sheer instinct—but it was the only form he knew, the one he always returned to before charging headlong into a fight.
He inhaled sharply, then bolted.
The ground thudded beneath his boots as he sprinted toward Yuno, all reckless momentum and unfiltered intent, the branch raised like it was an extension of his will rather than a flimsy piece of wood.
Yuno's eyes widened for a fleeting second at the sudden rush—then focus snapped into place. His gaze sharpened, lips pressing into a thin line as he shifted his footing. He lifted his own branch and adjusted his stance, mirroring Asta's frame but angling it inward, guarded. Defensive. Controlled. Where Asta was all forward motion, Yuno rooted himself, waiting, measuring the distance between them with unnerving calm.
From the sidelines, Xierra giggled, the sound light and bright against the heavy air. She leaned back against the rough bark of a nearby tree, arms loosely crossed as she watched the two clash in front of her.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves above, dappling her hair and shoulders as her eyes followed every movement—every misstep, every burst of stubborn effort—her smile widening as the familiar chaos of their sparring unfolded.
.
.
.
Time slipped past without ceremony, marked only by the repeated thuds of Asta hitting the ground. He gathered dirt and grass like proof of effort, skin smeared, clothes rumpled, breath scraped thin with every rise and fall of his chest.
The clearing glowed amber beneath the sinking sun, light spilling between branches and turning the dust in the air into drifting embers.
Somewhere in the back of Xierra's mind, the present blurred—edges softening—until the scene carried that hazy weight all memories of childhood did, colored by warmth and ache all at once. Her gaze dimmed as she watched him struggle upright again, only to collapse with a pained groan. She moved without thinking, feet carrying her across the trampled grass, skirts brushing against bent blades as she dropped into a crouch beside him.
"Asta, are you sure you're okay?" she asked, concern threading through her voice as she leaned closer, eyes scanning every scrape and bruise she could see.
Yuno, standing just behind her, dipped his head in agreement. His attention never strayed far from Asta either. The latter let out a louder grunt and snapped upright in one sharp motion.
Xierra yelped and tumbled back onto her hands, eyes wide. Yuno offered her a crooked, almost-smile as irritation flickered across her face.
"Warn me when you're about to bounce up next time."
"That's just you being a scaredy-cat."
She scowled. "Wouldn't be much of a scaredy-cat if you're the one screaming at ni—"
Her words vanished behind Asta's frantic hands as he lunged forward, palms clamping over her mouth.
"Mmph—mphh!!"
"N-No, don't say it out loud!!" Asta panicked, eyes darting around the clearing as if the trees themselves might gossip. "I thought you promised not to tell anyone...!!"
She swatted his sweaty hands away and wiped her mouth with exaggerated disgust before lifting one brow. "I will," she teased, lips curving, "if you keep calling me a scaredy-cat."
"Fine, I get it, I get it!!"
"Do you, now?" Xierra replied flatly, huffing as she rose and hauled Asta up with her. The boy wobbled but stayed standing, grinning like nothing hurt at all.
Beside her, Yuno watched quietly.
A glance flicked toward Xierra as she continued bickering with Asta, their voices overlapping in familiar chaos. Something tight curled in Yuno's chest, a feeling he didn't yet have words for. It always surfaced like this—when she laughed too easily with Asta, when her attention tilted toward him alone.
Well... I'm here too.
He knew she never meant to leave him out. That knowledge didn't make the feeling fade.
What should I do to make you talk to me?
The thought startled him. His eyes widened, and he shook his head once, sharp and embarrassed.
What am I thinking...? I shouldn't think like that.
He released a long breath, heavy for such a small chest. The sound caught Xierra's attention.
She turned, stepping closer, white hair catching the sunlight. "Yuno?" she called.
No response.
"Yuno," she tried again, louder.
"H—Huh?" He blinked rapidly, pulled back into the clearing, and the moment. "W-What is it? D-Did you say something?"
She shook her head, smiling faintly. "Not really. I was just calling you." Her eyes searched his face. "Is something on your mind?"
"A-Ah—no," he replied too quickly. "It's nothing."
She studied him for a second longer, reminded of the boy he used to be—quieter, unsure, all his feelings folded inward. Then she shrugged, hands on her hips. "Well, are you two going to start again?"
"No, we're n—"
"Of course we are!!" Asta burst out, nearly vibrating with energy.
Xierra startled so hard she nearly cursed aloud. She pressed her lips together, imagining hurling her shoes at him over and over.
Instead, she sighed.
"Fine," she muttered, trudging back to her spot beneath the tree. She sat with her back against the bark, knees drawn up, watching the boys square off once more. Before settling in, she flashed Yuno a quick thumbs-up.
His face crumpled in despair.
"Good luck. You're going to need it," she flatly offered.
Asta charged again and again, each attempt fierce and clumsy. Yuno answered with bursts of wind that shoved him back across the grass, over and over, until Xierra lost count of how many times he fell.
"Asta, are you sure you don't wanna—"
"I'm not giving up until I hit Yuno!!!" Asta shouted, already running again.
Xierra leaned back, letting her head rest against the tree as she watched the scene unfold—sunlight, laughter, grit, and stubborn hope all tangled together.
"When will it be my turn?" she muttered under her breath, "if you're taking this long with Yuno..."
Despite herself, her attention kept slipping back to him.
Xierra tried to tell herself she was only watching to see how the match progressed, to judge when Asta might finally tire out. Yet her gaze traced Yuno's movements with an attentiveness she didn't grant anything else—the way his feet adjusted against the grass, how his shoulders squared before releasing another burst of wind, the brief crease between his brows whenever Asta rushed in too close. Each step he took seemed measured, careful, as if the air itself had agreed to listen to him.
Every time Asta yelled her name—every time he laughed and called her a scaredy-cat in that loud, careless way—her face heated at once.
"Hey! Don't call me that!" she snapped once, sitting straighter, eyes flicking to Yuno without permission.
She hated that he might hear it. Hated even more the way her chest twisted as she waited to see his reaction.
Yuno didn't tease her for it. He never did. Instead, when Asta stumbled again, and Xierra shot to her feet with a sharp inhale, Yuno glanced her way and offered a small nod.
"You were right earlier," he said, voice steady despite his own fatigue. "Your timing was good."
The words struck harder than any spell.
Xierra froze, caught between steps. "I—I was?" she blurted, then clamped her mouth shut, annoyed at herself. Her hands curled at her sides, unsure what to do with them.
Yuno nodded once more. "Yeah."
That was all. No grand praise. No spectacle.
Still, it left her flustered, pulse racing as she turned away and pretended to busy herself with smoothing the grass beneath her palms. She could feel her cheeks burning and prayed Asta wouldn't notice.
Love, she didn't know it then, was a curious thing.
Love, oh, young love.
Young innocent love.
It didn't arrive with thunder or declarations. It crept in quietly, woven through moments too small to guard against—a glance held half a second too long, a word that mattered more than it should. They were young that day, still learning how the world worked, still thinking strength came only from shouting louder or striking harder.
Above them, the sky shifted toward dusk, gold giving way to pale blue, then deepening toward indigo. The sun lowered without ceremony, and the moon waited, already present though not yet seen. They shared the same sky long before either dared to name what they were to one another.
The sun did not confess to the moon. It simply kept shining, trusting that its light would be found.
And the moon, patient and constant, had always been there—reflecting what it was given, long before either understood what it meant.
The moon never asked the sun to notice her. She followed her orbit in silence, gathering warmth she could never create on her own, turning borrowed brilliance into something gentler, something meant for the dark. Even when clouds gathered, even when the sky pretended they were apart, her pull never wavered. She learned his patterns by instinct alone—when he burned brightest, when his light thinned, when he stood steady against a world that demanded too much from him.
The sun, for his part, burned forward without looking back, unaware of how faithfully his light was being kept. He rose each day to give, not knowing that someone watched not out of need, but choice. He shone because it was his nature. After all, the sky asked it of him. And somewhere in that vast blue distance, the moon learned how to glow without ever stepping into the day.
Years later, Xierra would understand that this was how it began.
Not with impact. Not with certainty.
But with the same golden light—
—cut, shared, and carried.