Yuno sent a surge of violent wind tearing from his arms, the air warping as it twisted itself into a living force aimed straight at Mars. The gale screamed across the fractured ground, scattering crystal dust into a blinding storm as it collided with the mineral-clad figure.
He stood firmly in front of Xierra, shoulders squared, feet digging into ruined stone as though the earth itself were the only thing keeping him upright. Every breath scraped his chest raw, but he did not turn. He did not look back. Protecting her came before anything else—before fear, before pain, before the creeping exhaustion gnawing at his bones.
Xierra wanted to help.
She truly did.
Her fingers twitched against the ground, nails scraping uselessly over grit and splintered crystal. Her thoughts screamed commands her body refused to obey. Her eyelids drooped, weighted as if someone had pressed stone against them, her vision blurring at the edges until the world felt distant and unreal. Her limbs trembled, then failed her entirely, refusing to rise no matter how desperately she willed them to move.
From where she lay, her eyes followed Yuno's every motion.
His movements had lost their clean precision. His stance faltered between strikes, breath coming sharp and uneven. Scratches lined his arms, his uniform torn and dusted with gray and pink from shattered minerals. Still, he raised his hands again, forcing another whirlwind into existence, the magic answering him only out of stubborn loyalty.
The wind crashed into Mars.
Then broke.
The armor did not yield. The spell shattered apart like mist against stone, scattering uselessly around the battlefield. Mars walked through it without effort, boots crunching against crystal remnants as if the storm had never existed at all. His face remained carved from calm, emotion absent, his rose-tinted eyes narrowing ever so slightly as they flicked from Xierra's labored breaths to Yuno's unyielding stare.
"It's useless. Just stop."
The words landed heavy, final, like a sentence passed by an uncaring judge.
Yuno did not hesitate.
Another gust tore free from him, then another, each one forced into being through sheer resolve rather than strength. His magic burned thin, stretched to its limits, but he refused to let it die quietly. If even one strike chipped away at that armor—if it bought even a second—that was enough.
"I'm not stopping."
Mars advanced.
Each step closed the distance with terrifying ease, the battlefield shrinking until there was nowhere left to retreat. The light glinted off his crystalline blade, casting sharp reflections across Yuno's strained expression. His presence loomed, cold and inevitable, like a force of nature that could not be argued with.
"Move."
Yuno shifted his footing, planting himself more firmly between Mars and Xierra. He straightened despite the tremor running through him, shoulders lifting as he widened his stance, blocking her from view with his own battered form.
The wind stirred faintly around him, thinner now, but still alive.
"I'm not moving."
Behind him, Xierra clenched her teeth, heart pounding painfully in her chest.
In that moment, she understood.
Trust was not always gentle. Sometimes it was forged in exhaustion, in defiance, in standing their ground even when their body begged them to fall. And Yuno—burning, stubborn, unyielding—was placing every fragile piece of it between her and the blade.
.
.
.
As the currents spiraled wildly around a younger Asta's charging form, the air bent and scattered beneath his reckless advance. Yuno's focus sharpened just in time—his eyes widening by a hair's breadth—as the ash-blond boy surged through the uneven winds, teeth clenched, branch raised with unwavering intent.
The branch tapped the crown of Yuno's head.
It wasn't a strike born of strength. It barely carried weight at all. The wood bounced off his hair, ruffling it before snapping free and tumbling into the grass between them.
But it hit.
"There, see?" Asta blurted out, already turning around as if the outcome had never been in doubt.
Xierra jolted upright so fast it startled even her. Her breath caught, hands flying to her chest as her eyes shone wide with disbelief, as though she'd just witnessed something miraculous unfold in front of her.
"Y–You did it! You really did it, Asta!" she exclaimed, finger pointed accusingly at the stunned Yuno, mouth still parted in awe. For a fleeting moment, she looked like she might laugh or cry—or both.
Asta puffed out his chest, chin lifted high in triumph, ignoring the sweat clinging to his bangs and the dirt smeared across his knees. "Of course I did!" he announced, voice ringing with pride. The dozen failed attempts before this moment were erased from his memory. "I told you!"
He grinned then—wide and brilliant, reckless and unguarded.
"As long as I don't give up," he continued, eyes alight with certainty, "I'll get there!"
The words struck deeper than the branch ever could have.
Xierra found herself frozen, caught somewhere between amusement and awe, the sunlight catching in her eyes as that grin burned itself into her memory. There was something fearless in it. Something unshakable. She hadn't realized she was smiling until her cheeks began to ache.
Yuno, still rubbing the top of his head, stared at Asta for a long second before a small laugh escaped him—quiet, surprised, real. It slipped past his composure before he could stop it.
Xierra laughed too, light and breathless, the sound spilling out as the tension finally unraveled. The three of them stood there under the blazing sky, dirt-streaked and exhausted, laughter weaving them together as if the moment itself had decided to be kind.
For that brief afternoon, it felt simple.
Giving up had never been an option.
.
.
.
Yuno's strength finally gave way.
His legs buckled beneath him, and he fell to one knee with a dull scrape against the ruined ground. The movement sent a sharp tremor through Xierra's chest as her breath caught—because looming above them, poised with cruel patience, was the thin, sharpened edge of Mars' mineral sword.
It hovered like a verdict waiting to be delivered.
They were aligned in the same narrow path of danger. Xierra crouched just behind Yuno, her breath uneven and raw. Before she could think, Yuno shifted closer, placing himself fully between her and the descending blade. His grimoire floated forward, pages fluttering weakly, as though answering his instinct rather than his command.
Inari bared his teeth, flames sputtering around the trio in uneven bursts. The fox's body trembled, shoulders tight with strain. His mana ran parallel to Yuno's—thin, stretched, nearly dry—but still he forced the fire to stay alive, even if it burned no brighter than dying embers.
Was this it?
They had thrown everything they had into the fight. Wind that could carve stone. Light that bent and scattered. Fire that once devoured obstacles whole. None of it left a mark.
Mars remained unmoved.
Even Yuno—with the rare four-leaf clover answering his will—and Xierra, bearing the crescent grimoire that answered no one else, could not pierce him. Their strongest efforts slid off his armor like rain against crystal.
What were they missing?
What did they lack?
Experience, perhaps. Technique, honed skills.
Maybe all the above, maybe more.
Was there anything more they could do?
The question pressed heavily against Xierra's ribs as exhaustion dragged at her limbs. The ground felt closer than it should have, as if despair itself were tugging her down by the ankles. It waited patiently, just beyond the edge of thought, ready to swallow what little resolve they had left.
"Stay behind me," Yuno told her.
His voice came low, tight with effort, yet unwavering.
Xierra frowned at his back, fingers curling into her sleeve. "No," she answered, breath shaking but eyes clear. "I want to help."
"You're exhausted."
She let out a small, sharp breath, equal parts frustration and defiance. "Says the one who can barely stand."
Yuno glanced back then, just briefly—and their gazes locked. Gold met blue, both dulled by fatigue, both burning with the same refusal.
"I'll help," she repeated, firmer this time.
Yuno exhaled, a quiet surrender. He turned forward again, lifting his hand as the winds gathered sluggishly around him. Xierra followed his lead, summoning what little light remained to her, wisps trembling as they took shape. Inari stepped closer, flames curling protectively around their feet.
They attacked together.
Again.
And again.
Wind blades cut through the air only to scatter. Light flared and faded without leaving scars. Their bodies screamed for rest, their balance faltered, yet neither of them stepped back.
They kept moving.
They kept standing.
Even knowing it wasn't enough.
And then—without warning—the memories returned.
Sunlit fields. Scraped knees. A boy with ashen hair charged forward, no matter how many times he fell. Laughter ringing through the heat of late afternoons. A voice declaring, again and again, that quitting wasn't an option.
As long as they didn't give up.
Xierra's chest tightened.
The sun had always burned itself forward until it could not anymore—trusting that something else would rise when it did. And the moon... the moon had always been there to follow, to reflect, to endure the waiting.
Even now.
Even here.
The dungeon answered Mars' intent with violence.
Stone groaned beneath their feet as the ground bucked and twisted, a furious shudder rippling through the chamber. Sand and shattered rock poured from the ceiling, scattering along the edges of the room like ash caught in a storm. Yet the massive doors behind them—ancient, sealed, uncaring—stood firm, unmoved by the chaos unfolding before them.
Xierra's strength finally gave out.
Her knees struck the ground with a dull impact, and no matter how fiercely she willed her body to rise, it refused. The world felt unbearably heavy, as though gravity itself had chosen her as its anchor. One by one, her wisps flickered and vanished, light thinning into nothing. Inari darted closer at once, circling her with sharp, protective turns.
"Master," he warned, teeth clenched, "you've pushed your magic and your body past its limit. Any more, and you would—"
"No, I'm not do—kkh...!!"
Her breath broke apart as pain bloomed in her chest, hot and suffocating. Each inhale scraped, shallow, and uneven, refusing to reach her lungs fully.
Yuno stood a step ahead of her, unsteady yet refusing to fall. His shoulders shook beneath the weight of overused muscles, arms rigid as if locked in place by sheer resolve alone. Every breath he drew was labored, scraped thin by exhaustion, but he did not yield ground.
Above them, Mars' mineral sword hovered once more—silent, immaculate, and terrifyingly patient—its sharpened edge held aloft as though it understood exactly how fragile the moment had become.
Behind him, Xierra's chest tightened—not with a spoken fear, but with the crushing realization of how close the end loomed.
Death was no longer a distant possibility; it pressed against the air itself, close enough to feel, close enough to taste. Her fingers curled weakly against the stone, nails scraping as if the earth might answer her desperation. Inari's presence flared at her side, sharp and alert, his attention snapping fully onto her the instant her strength wavered.
He drew in a breath that burned.
Inari's tail burst into flame once more, azure fire clawing its way into existence despite the cost it demanded of him. The light spilled across the ruined chamber, striking stone and crystal alike, painting Yuno's rigid silhouette and Xierra's collapsed form in fierce blue hues. It was defiance given shape—small, stubborn, and incandescent. Inari positioned himself closer to her, flames snapping as though daring fate itself to come nearer.
In that narrow space between blade and breath, something unspoken took form.
Yuno did not turn back, did not ask if she could stand or fight or flee. He simply remained there—between her and the sword—trusting that she would endure, just as she trusted him to hold the line. Two lights, battered and dimming, still burning side by side. Not clashing in opposition, but aligning—one steadfast, one fragile, bound together by faith forged long before this moment.
Stars did not always collide to destroy one another.
Sometimes, they met in the dark and chose to shine anyway.
Whether it was defiance or comfort, Xierra could not tell—only that it reached her all the same. The pressure in her chest loosened by a fraction, enough for her vision to steady, enough for the trembling in her hands to quiet. With effort that felt monumental, she lifted her head, breath dragging thin but stubborn through her lungs.
Together, they looked up.
The mineral blade hovered above them, immaculate and merciless, its surface catching the fractured light of Inari's flames. It waited there, suspended in dreadful stillness, as if the weapon itself was savoring the moment. Yuno stood firm before her, his shadow cutting a narrow line across the stone, his back a shield shaped by resolve rather than magic.
"Yuno! Xierra—!!"
Klaus' voice tore through the chaos, stripped raw by urgency. He strained against Mars' crystal copy, shield braced, boots skidding across the scarred floor as every collision sent showers of sparks bursting into the air. Each impact rang with the promise of failure, his movements growing heavier by the second.
Above them, the sword lowered.
Xierra's heart slammed violently against her ribs.
Badum, badum.
The space between steel and flesh shrank until it felt unbearable, close enough that she could almost sense its cold weight brushing her skin.
Badum, badum.
One strike. One downward arc. That was all it would take to end everything.
Badum, badum.
The silence pressed in around them, thick and oppressive, carrying a single, unspoken demand—give up.
Badum, badum.
Yet neither of them looked away.
Yuno did not falter. Xierra did not turn aside. They held their ground beneath the blade, eyes lifted, fear burning quietly into resolve. If this were where it ended, then it would be with their gaze fixed forward—together, unbroken, daring the world to finish what it had started.
Daring death to touch them.
Daring death to struggle to get hold of them.
Daring death when life chose them.
.
.
.
"It's my turn now!" little Xierra declared all of a sudden.
The fatigue that had weighed her down moments ago vanished as if it had never existed, washed clean by awe and bright, restless wonder. Seeing Asta land that hit—seeing proof that stubborn effort could bend even the impossible—had sparked something fierce in her chest. She straightened, eyes alight, already stepping forward before anyone could object.
"Whatttt???" Asta blurted out, staring at her in disbelief. "It's almost nighttime, though!" He scrunched his face into a dramatic pout, brows knitting together in protest.
The next second, a shoe came flying at his head.
"H-Hey! Don't throw things!" he yelped, ducking just in time as it sailed past him and thumped uselessly into the grass.
"Oh, shut up!" Xierra snapped back, cheeks puffed as she planted her hands on her hips. The sky behind her had begun to bleed into warm amber and rose, the sun tipping closer to the horizon until indigo was seen on the other side of the sky.
"You're the one who wanted to keep training earlier when we said the sun was gonna set!"
She jabbed a finger at him, resolve blazing clear. "You and I are having a rematch. Now!"
"What?!" Asta spluttered.
Xierra spun on her heel, already redirecting her challenge. "Fine then—Yuno! Let's train!"
"E-Eh...? Us? Both?" Yuno stiffened, caught completely off guard.
The fading sunlight spilled across Xierra's pale-blue eyes, turning them almost gold as she looked between the two boys. There was no hesitation in her stance, no trace of the exhaustion she had complained about earlier. The resolve shining there rivaled Asta's fiery drive, sharp and unwavering in its own quiet way.
Asta swallowed, suddenly unsure, while Yuno studied her for a heartbeat longer.
Then he nodded.
It was small, but it carried weight.
Xierra's mouth curved into a grin—mischievous, daring—and she raised her fist. Yuno mirrored her, lifting his own, the two of them standing side by side beneath the darkening sky.
Together, they voiced the same words they had heard a hundred times before, borrowed from Asta's stubborn creed and made their own—
—the promise to try, again and again, until something finally changed.
.
.
.
"We're not giving up!!"
The declaration tore through the crumbling chamber, raw and unpolished, yet brimming with a will that refused to bow. It stood between life and death like a vow carved into stone—not elegant, not refined, but unbreakable all the same.
For a breathless instant, the world narrowed to that suspended blade and the fragile space beneath it. Time stretched thin, trembling, like the moment before a final stroke in some long-forgotten painting. It felt as though they were figures caught beneath a divine hand—like the mortals reaching upward in old cathedral frescoes, fingers straining toward salvation as judgment loomed overhead. Life and death balanced on a single point, neither yielding, neither advancing.
Xierra's vision blurred, not from tears yet, but from the crushing weight of that in-between. She thought of how artists once painted death as a skeletal reaper, merciless and precise—yet others gave it wings, halos, even tenderness. Maybe death wasn't cruel by nature. Maybe it was simply inevitable, patient as marble, waiting for resolve to falter.
But resolve did not falter.
It burned.
Like the chiaroscuro of ancient canvases—light clawing its way out of shadow, refusing to be swallowed whole. Like the figures in those somber baroque halls, bodies twisted in agony, yet eyes lifted toward something brighter, something promised. The living always reached, even when their hands shook. Especially then.
The sword did not fall.
The impact never came.
Instead, something cut through the moment itself.
Asta stood before them.
He appeared so suddenly that it felt unreal, like a miracle painted in after the fact. His massive sword rested at his side, dull and heavy, yet humming with a presence that swallowed the air around it. In that fleeting second, the anti-magic blade cleaved through the towering mineral weapon as if it were nothing more than brittle glass.
The gargantuan sword split cleanly in two.
One half flew across the chamber, crashing into the far end with a thunderous force that cracked the earth wide open, stone screaming as it gave way. Dust and debris surged upward, but no one spared it a glance.
No one could.
All eyes were fixed on him.
On the boy who arrived when there was nothing left to give—when mana had run dry, muscles screamed in protest, and bodies stood on the brink of collapse. When hope had been thinned down to its final thread.
He didn't just stop the blow.
He stopped death.
Xierra's strength gave out its final drop of energy. She sagged backward, the shock catching up to her all at once. A single tear slipped free, tracing the edge of her vision as her mind struggled to grasp what had just happened. How many times had this been him? How many times had he charged headfirst into the impossible and torn it apart with nothing but will?
Too many to count.
Beside her, Yuno stood frozen, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and relief. Neither of them noticed the anti-bird flapping anxiously nearby, circling them as if to confirm they were still alive.
Asta shifted, rolling his shoulder once before lifting his head. His bangs cast his eyes in shadow as he faced the Diamond Kingdom mage.
"Hey, pale dude," he called, voice steady, unyielding. "Hands off these two."
Then he snapped his head up, swinging his broad sword forward, planting it between himself and the enemy like a line drawn in stone.
His voice rang out with the same fierce certainty he had always carried—the same declaration he had shouted into the sky, into fate itself, time and time again.
"Yuno and Xierra are my rivals!!"
And in that moment, standing amid ruin and dust, life chose to stay.
"Crap..."
Yuno's voice slipped out thin and rough beside her, threaded with uneven breaths he failed to hide. His shoulders rose and fell in sharp intervals, wind mana guttering around his frame like a flame starved of air.
Xierra drew in a breath that wavered, then let it go in a quiet, breathless laugh—light, almost disbelieving. It wasn't mockery. It was relief spilling out through the cracks, the kind that came when one realized they were still standing, still breathing, still alive by some narrow mercy.
"And just when you'd finally paid back that favor," she added, amusement threading her voice, faint but genuine. The sound carried warmth despite her exhaustion, as if she were clinging to the thin, unexpected thread that had kept them from falling into the dark.
Yuno stiffened. He turned toward her, eyes widening, chest still rising unevenly—as though her words had struck with more force than Mars' blade ever could.
She gave him a small, tired grin in response. The attempt to shift her weight proved foolish—her knees buckled once more when she tried to lower herself properly, strength abandoning her without ceremony. The magic that once filled her veins had been spent down to the last spark, leaving her hollow and exposed.
Before she could tip any farther, an arm slipped behind her back.
The pull was firm but careful, drawing her closer until her shoulder brushed against his chest. The space between them vanished, replaced by shared warmth and the quiet thud of his heartbeat.
"Y-Yuno—"
"Don't push yourself too hard," he cut in, voice steady despite his state. He didn't meet her gaze. Instead, he turned his head away, ears faintly red beneath his hair—an unusual sight for someone who carried himself like carved stone.
Xierra blinked, then smiled. Her eyes slipped shut, relief easing the tension in her face as she nodded once. "Same goes for you," she replied. "You're the one working harder than me here."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"Am not."
"You are."
"Yuno, Xierra!!"
Asta's voice crashed straight through their bickering. He snapped his head back toward them, arms thrown wide as if offended on principle alone. "I finally catch up, and what are you two doing?!"
Xierra drew breath to answer—
"Don't you dare lose on me, you jerks!" Asta shouted over her, pointing accusingly at both of them.
"Who are you calling my beloved Master a jerk?!"
Inari's voice rang out, sharp and indignant. In a flash of black fur and blue flame, the fox reappeared atop Asta's head, paws coming down in rapid succession.
The hits landed one after another.
Both Xierra and Yuno stared ahead in perfect stillness.
They had definitely seen this before.
"Ow—ow—ow!! Stop hitting my head, you damn fox!!" Asta yelped, staggering under the assault.
"I have every right to hit you and your idiotic head," Inari snapped back, landing one final strike. "It's a miracle you even have a brain in there."
That last hit sent Asta reeling.
"H-Hey, stop hitting my head!!"
"I did. Stop accusing me."
"But my world is spinning!"
"Not my problem."
Inari flicked his tail as he turned away, the motion clipping Asta square in the face. The ash-blond winced, silently swearing to watch every word he spoke around Xierra—and her familiar—from now on.
Yuno straightened, forcing his spine into alignment despite the tremor that still lingered in his limbs. The moment slipped from his face as if he'd folded it away, his features settling into practiced composure, calm and distant—like the danger had never brushed so close to them at all.
"Hmph. Why did you do that?" he asked, tone even, almost clipped. "We almost had him."
"...We?"
Xierra turned fully toward him, disbelief flashing across her light-blue eyes. The word caught on her tongue, sharp and incredulous. From her place on the fractured stone, she'd barely managed to stay upright. Her legs still protested, magic drained to the marrow. If anyone had been pushing forward—if anyone had been forcing Mars back, refusing to yield—it had been Yuno.
"What do you mean, we?" she pressed, voice rising despite herself. "My attacks didn't even do anything."
Yuno didn't argue right away. Instead, he lifted a hand and set it atop her head, fingers threading lightly through pale strands. The contact was brief, almost hesitant, but it carried weight—steady, grounding, real. Something to anchor them both.
"No," he replied, firm in a way that left no room for doubt. "You helped. We almost had him."
Xierra blinked, words stalling in her throat.
"Say what?!"
Asta's voice crashed into the moment like a dropped boulder. He staggered toward them, sweat streaming down his face as he waved his arms wildly, disbelief written across every exaggerated motion.
"You liar!" he barked. "You're both totally wrecked! You looked like you were about to die!"
Yuno barely glanced at him. "We were about to launch a decisive counterattack."
Asta froze. Then he gaped. "That's such a lie! You always do that!" He jabbed a finger in their direction. "And stop dragging Xierra into every sentence!"
Before Xierra could protest, a familiar flare of blue lit the air.
"Yuno can use my master's name whenever he wants," Inari snapped, tail bristling as he puffed up with offense. "Unlike you, you useless anti-magic brat."
Asta recoiled as if struck. "What?! What did I even do this time?!"
Inari's eyes narrowed. "Everything you do is wrong."
"Huh?! How is that even fair?!"
Despite herself, Xierra felt a laugh bubble up—weak, breathless, but real. The danger hadn't vanished, the battle far from over, yet in that fleeting clash of voices and stubborn pride, something warmer threaded between them.
Trust.
Messy, loud, and unspoken—but unmistakably there.
Across the battlefield, Mars watched them.
The corners of his rose-tinged eyes tightened, a faint crease forming as something sharp and uninvited twisted deep in his chest. He was the survivor of the Diamond Kingdom's trials—the one who had crawled out of that pit alive. The strongest. The only answer to a system that devoured its own without mercy.
That truth had always been enough.
And yet, as he watched them, it wavered.
Their voices collided without order or restraint, cutting over one another in a way that should have been irritating. The much shorter knight's unfiltered shouting rang with reckless confidence. The boy with amber eyes fired back with blunt precision, sharp but controlled. Between them, the light-haired girl stood close to her familiar, their connection wordless, instinctive—an understanding forged without command or fear.
They were unguarded.
Not because they were careless, but because they trusted one another to stand there. To argue. To breathe. To exist in the middle of danger without turning their blades inward.
The realization struck him harder than any spell.
This was not the silence of obedience he had been raised in. Not the rigid calm that came from knowing failure meant erasure. This was noise born from certainty—certainty that someone would be there when the dust settled.
It felt... known.
Like a half-remembered warmth pressed against the back of his mind. Like something he had once been allowed to want, before strength had demanded everything else.
Mars drew in a slow breath, steadying himself, and tightened his grip on his weapon. The feeling lingered anyway, unyielding and uncomfortable, refusing to be crushed beneath pride or power.
For the first time, the space between him and his enemies did not feel defined by distance alone—but by something far more difficult to bridge.
He shook himself, fixing his gaze forward. His stance steadied, Nemean Armor gleaming under the fractured light. Crystal copies still pressed their seniors back. Victory should have been inevitable.
And yet—
His gaze drifted, almost against his will, to the broad, dark blade resting in the shorter boy's grasp.
That sword had cleaved through his.
The fact struck with brutal clarity. Not chipped. Not deflected. Split cleanly, as though the laws that governed mana and mineral had simply stepped aside for it. For him.
A sharp, unwelcome awareness surged through Mars' thoughts. The kind that threatened to unravel carefully built certainty. He pressed it down at once, schooling his expression into practiced composure, smoothing every trace of disturbance until nothing showed on the surface. Strength did not falter. Control did not slip.
It had to be an anomaly.
Yet his attention sharpened all the same.
More Magic Knights poured into the chamber, boots striking broken stone with urgency. Lightning cracked violently around a wild-eyed blond, arcs leaping from his limbs as if eager to bite into anything within reach. Nearby, a silver-haired girl moved with startling swiftness, her presence cutting through the chaos like polished steel catching light.
An odd assembly.
Unruly. Unrefined. Entirely lacking the rigid order Mars had been taught to revere.
And still—together—they filled the shattered hall with something dangerous. Not just power, but momentum. A force born not from hierarchy or survival games, but from numbers, from trust, from the reckless belief that they would not fall alone.
Mars adjusted his stance, crystal gleaming along his armor.
Unpredictable enemies were the most troublesome kind.
And for the first time since stepping into the dungeon, he understood that this battle was no longer as simple as strength against strength.
"Fine then!!"
Asta stepped forward, planting his feet and lifting his blade. Yuno and Xierra followed, aligning themselves beside him without a word.
"Let's see which of us takes this guy down first!!"
To Be Continued...