Asta lay sprawled against the dungeon's cold brickwork, dust clinging to his clothes and hair as if the stone itself had tried to bury him where he fell. His chest rose and fell in uneven pulls, each breath scraping on the way in. One arm trembled when he tried to push himself up; the other curled instinctively toward the space where his familiar blade should have been.
Gone.
The thought burned hotter than the pain running through his body.
He ground his teeth, fury tightening his jaw until it hurt. Thrown aside like debris. Disarmed. Too slow—too weak—to stop Mars from turning Noelle into a target. The image clawed at him, sharp and unforgiving. His nails dug into the grit beneath his palm as anger folded inward, turning on itself. He hated Mars for striking her. He hated himself for failing to stand in the way.
And yet—before him, half-buried beneath shattered stone and bent metal, something unfamiliar waited.
A different sword.
Its shape was leaner than the one he had lost, darker along the spine, as if shadow itself had settled into the steel. It did not gleam. It drank in the dim light instead, quiet and patient, like it had been waiting far longer than Asta had been alive.
Nero did not explain.
The small anti-bird perched nearby, claws clicking against broken masonry as it shifted its weight. Its wings fluttered once, twice, the sound sharp against the silence, drawing Asta's attention back to the weapon. The bird tilted its head, red eyes fixed on him, unblinking—as though urging him forward without words.
Asta's green eyes widened, breath hitching.
Another one...?
Disbelief rippled through him, chased quickly by resolve. If fate had tossed him aside, then he would grab whatever it left behind and swing back harder. He dragged himself closer, muscles protesting every inch, gaze locked on the sword as though it might vanish if he blinked.
The dungeon answered with violence.
Wind tore through the adjoining chamber, rattling loose stones as Mars' heavy steps slowed to a stop. Dust drifted where the wall had collapsed, framing the figure that filled the breach. His rose-hued eyes—too bright, too sharp—focused on the hole he had made, assessing it without remorse. There was no regret in his posture. Only calculation.
But beneath that calm, something twisted.
The pressure behind his eyes grew unbearable, memories forcing their way past the walls he had built. Laughter from a time when pain had not yet defined him. Voices that praised, encouraged, and promised a future that never came. Faces blurred together, replaced by cold halls and colder hands that called it training.
He had buried those days. Locked them away because remembering meant feeling.
Yet now they tore free, gnawing at him with every heartbeat.
His grip tightened around nothing as anger warred with confusion. Why now? Why here? The Diamond Kingdom's lessons had taught him to sever weakness, not drown in it. And yet the images refused to fade, growing louder the more he tried to crush them.
It had started when that black fox spoke.
A voice that should not have reached him. A presence that slipped past his defenses and struck somewhere far deeper than bone or mana. Since then, the past had refused to stay silent, dragging him back into a childhood he had survived by forgetting.
Mars exhaled through clenched teeth, shoulders tense.
He did not turn away from the hole.
But for the first time, his certainty wavered—thin as glass, threatening to shatter under the weight of everything he had tried so hard not to remember.
.
.
.
"If we get strong enough to protect the country, we'll get to go outside, right?"
Two children stood on tiptoe by the crossed windows of their shared room, careful not to let the metal frames creak. Frosted glass blurred the world beyond, turning sunlight into pale smears that barely reached their faces. Small hands pressed against the chill surface, leaving faint warmth behind. The pink-haired girl leaned forward as if the sky might lean back in response, her eyes shining with a hope too large for the room that held her.
"I bet you'll be the first one out, Mars!" she laughed, voice bright despite the hush they kept. She glanced sideways at him, grin wide and fearless. "Lucky!"
She had always been like that—warm in a place that starved for warmth. Her laughter found cracks where silence lived, slipping through iron rules and locked doors. Even when the days blurred together, even when the air tasted of stone and waiting, she spoke as though tomorrow was already kind. Mars remembered how it made his chest feel lighter, how the heaviness eased whenever she smiled his way.
The boy beside her flushed at the ears, the color rising to match the strange hues of his eyes. He stared through the same window, though he doubted he truly saw anything beyond it. The idea of outside felt unreal, like a story told too many times to be true. Still, he answered her, voice careful and sincere.
"When that happens," Mars promised, fingers curling at his sides, "I'll wait until you get out too, Fana."
Her name settled between them, simple and precious.
Fana turned fully toward him, cheeks round and glowing as if she carried her own light. She nodded so hard her hair bounced, excitement bubbling over. "Yes! Let's go see the outside world together!"
The words sealed something unspoken. A future imagined, shared, protected. In that moment, the walls felt thinner. The ceiling was higher. The world seemed possible.
They did not know what waited beyond the doors.
They did not know that strength would be measured in loss, or that promises could be twisted into tools. When the sunlight stopped reaching them altogether, the room grew colder, the glass no longer offering even blurred comfort. Windows divided them from the adults, but the barrier failed to soften what drifted through—harsh voices, commands stripped of care, the weight of decisions made without mercy.
Days passed without faces to match the sounds. Only shadows moved beyond the partitions, and footsteps came and went with purpose that never included them. The air thickened with fear unspoken, and the children learned to stay quiet, to hold their breath when doors opened.
In that darkness, Mars clung to the memory of a girl at the window, smiling at a sky neither of them had ever touched and the clouds they had never reached.
"This is the final test. Kill each other."
The words fell without weight in the mouths of those who spoke them, delivered with practiced ease. A hand lifted in a careless gesture, as if issuing a chore rather than a sentence that shattered childhood. Took lives.
The adults did not raise their voices. They did not pause. Their eyes moved across the room like inspectors checking flawed tools with examination papers ready in hand.
Seconds slipped by, stretching thin. Then minutes followed, heavy and unmoving. No one stepped forward. No one cried out. Small bodies stood frozen where they were, eyes wide, breaths held too long. The room felt smaller with every heartbeat, its stone walls pressing in as though listening.
"The one who survives will become the mage warrior of our kingdom and be released," they continued, tone unchanged. "If you don't fight... You will all be destroyed."
So simple. So neat.
A choice carved with cruelty and dressed as opportunity.
Adults, they called themselves. Keepers of the nation. Voices of reason.
Time lost its shape after that. The memory blurred at the edges, moments bleeding into one another until meaning collapsed. Mars remembered the cold floor beneath his knees, remembered how the room no longer held voices—only stillness scattered across stone.
He stood among them, chest rising too fast, hands trembling in ways he did not yet understand. Strength had answered when fear demanded it. Training had taken over when his thoughts could not. One by one, the promises made at the window were swallowed by silence.
The world did not end. It simply continued, indifferent.
The sights of that day clung to him long after—eyes staring without seeing, mouths frozen mid-breath, the way hope vanished so quickly it felt unreal. Their pleas stayed with him, looping without sound, growing heavier each time he tried to forget.
Then, when his guard finally slipped—when his body faltered under the weight of what he had done—the voice he trusted most cut through the haze.
"I'm sorry, Mars! Die!!"
The sound struck deeper than any blow.
And yet—
.
.
.
—or at least, that was how he remembered it.
The stitched grimoire snapped open in Mars' grasp, its seams tugging tight as if bracing themselves. Pages threatened to spiral free, symbols crawling with restless intent, but he clamped his hand down and forced them still. Power gathered behind his eyes. He lifted his chin just enough to meet his enemy's gaze, daring them to flinch first.
Mana pressed outward from him in a visible swell, cold and disciplined. The treasure hall answered with a faint tremor—golden stacks quivering, gemstones chiming against one another as if warning those who stood too close. Mars did not advance. He did not need to. His presence alone carved distance.
The enemy's mouth curled, confidence sharpened into something cruel.
"The strong survive... The weak die."
The belief sat comfortably on their shoulders, worn like a crown that had never been questioned. Their stance widened, fingers flexing as if the outcome had already been decided. To them, strength was proof enough of righteousness.
What hollow words, for someone who once dreamed of sharing the horizon with another soul. They had watched Mars stand unmoved over a fallen companion and mistook that stillness for emptiness. The dungeon's treasury glittered around them—coins, relics, jewels—but it offered nothing that could buy back what had already been taken.
"Miss Noelle, stay with us!" Mimosa's voice cut across the hall, sharp with fear.
Talos Dolls flooded the space in jerking waves, stone limbs grinding against marble. Mars' gaze flicked toward them only once. His duplicates were already moving, intercepting the constructs with ruthless efficiency. Against the Magic Knights, they would hold. They always did.
The flaw in his design came charging straight through it.
Asta soon crashed into the field like a misplaced star, shattering formations with reckless momentum. Mars' jaw tightened, irritation flashing through his focus as yet another careful calculation unraveled beneath that impossible blade.
Across the chamber, Mimosa dropped to her knees beside Noelle. Her grimoire hovered at her shoulder, pages glowing bright as she poured everything she had into them. Light spilled from the runes, green and alive, bending toward the wounded girl.
"Plant Recovery Magic—Princess-Healing Flower Robe...!"
Vines burst forth from nothingness, weaving together in urgent devotion. Blossoms unfurled midair, petals brushing Mimosa's skin as a gown of living leaves formed around her. The scent of fresh earth filled the hall, steady and reassuring, as Mimosa hovered her hands above Noelle's injury.
Nearby, Xierra knelt with her palms open, breath measured despite the chaos. Clear streams spiraled outward from her position, cool and luminous, flowing over cracked stone and bloodstained marble alike. The injured Silva lay within its reach, every shallow breath answered by the gentle pull of her spell.
Then the air shifted once more.
Pale petals drifted down in quiet abundance, settling against skin and armor. Each touch carried relief—small wounds closing, pain easing, exhaustion thinning just enough to keep them standing.
Then the space itself transformed.
Xierra's mana deepened, spreading beyond water and bloom. Astral light took root beneath her, and a garden rose where none should exist. Slender flowers of soft gold and rose unfolded from the floor, their glow warm and patient.
Venus also watched over them.
All those who stepped within felt the change immediately. Light brushed over torn muscles and battered lungs, smoothing strain with careful grace. The more mana Xierra fed into the spell, the wider it grew, petals thickening, their radiance holding firm against the dungeon's malice.
Three spells breathed together—the devotion of Mimosa's spell, mercy given by a temporary spring, and the astral garden that bound them both. Their focus narrowed on Noelle, the magic layering itself with quiet urgency, while stray currents reached outward to tend lesser injuries nearby.
Mimosa swallowed hard, eyes shining as she glanced toward Xierra. Gratitude welled in her chest, fierce and unspoken. She gave a small nod, one healer recognizing another.
Still, fear refused to leave her hands.
Even wrapped in nature's finest care, Mimosa knew the truth. Noelle's wound ran too deep. This magic could steady her, protect her—but true healing would have to wait until they escaped this place alive.
As Mimosa worked, memories surfaced unbidden. Sunlit afternoons. Shared laughter. Promises made between cousins who believed they would grow stronger together, side by side, lifting one another higher.
She leaned closer to Noelle, fingers trembling just once.
Hold on, she pleaded, to the girl before her and to the future they had sworn to reach together.
Please, just for a little bit longer.
.
.
.
She had been small then. Smaller still in her own mind.
"Ah—!" Young Mimosa pitched forward, the ground rushing up too fast. Her palms struck first, sting blooming sharp and sudden, followed by her nose brushing dirt and grass. The shock stole her breath. Tears welled before she could stop them, blurring the world into pale color.
"Ow... ow... excuse me..." The words stumbled out with her sniffle, hands splayed uselessly as if the earth might apologize.
"What are you doing, Mimosa?"
The voice was sharp, impatient—but it came closer instead of away.
Mimosa lifted her head, rubbing her nose with the back of her sleeve. Lime-green eyes met rose-tinted ones framed by silver hair that caught the sun like water under glass. Noelle Silva stood there, posture straight despite her age, one hand already extended.
Noelle's brows pulled together as she looked her over. "Honestly. You really are slow." She huffed once, short and clipped, as if annoyed by the inconvenience of concern. "Here."
The word landed with the firmness of a command, but the hand stayed open. Steady. Waiting.
Others might have bristled. Mimosa never did.
She took that hand with both of hers, fingers small and warm, grip trusting without hesitation. Her eyes squeezed shut as she smiled, relief bright and genuine.
"Thank you, Noelle."
Noelle turned her head away at once, cheeks faintly pink, grip loosening only after Mimosa had found her balance again.
.
.
.
Time blurred forward after that.
Days folded into weeks. Weeks slipped quietly into years.
In the House of Vermillion, Mimosa grew beneath careful eyes and lofty expectations. Her Plant Magic bloomed early, responsive to her touch, answering her kindness with abundance. Scrapes vanished. Fevers eased. Wounds closed beneath leaves and blossoming light.
Praise followed her wherever she went—through sunlit corridors lined with marble, into gardens perfumed by fresh leaves, even into rooms where she had only meant to pass by.
Voices reached for her before she could retreat.
"That's incredible, Mimosa."
"I've never seen recovery magic respond so cleanly!"
"With power like that, you'll heal anything."
"You're extraordinary, Mimosa!"
Hands clapped her shoulders. Eyes shone with expectation. Nobles leaned closer, measuring her worth with hopeful smiles, already imagining futures where her magic solved every misfortune they feared might one day touch them.
Mimosa bowed as she had been taught, back straight, movements practiced to grace. She smiled when they looked at her, gentle and polite, the kind that never invited questions. She thanked them with a voice kept even and warm, each word placed carefully, as though kindness itself required discipline.
Inside, the praise flattened.
Each compliment stacked upon the last until they blurred together, indistinct and heavy. What once startled her now slid past without leaving a mark. The words no longer felt like recognition—they felt like a role she was expected to wear, pressed onto her shoulders like a mantle she hadn't chosen.
Extraordinary.
Incredible.
Perfect.
They rang hollow, dissolving into a low, constant hum she learned to endure, even as something quieter inside her wondered when anyone would stop praising her long enough to truly see her.
Then there were the other words—the ones lowered just enough to pretend they were harmless, the ones released only when they were certain she stood a step too far away to hear.
"The second girl of House Silva..."
"She can't control her magic at all."
"I heard she trains constantly and still fails."
"Imagine a royal turning out like that."
The laughter that followed carried no restraint. It spilled freely, sharp and careless, filling the space between polished walls as though cruelty were nothing more than a shared joke. Some covered their mouths; others didn't bother. A few even glanced around, checking who might be watching, before laughing louder.
Each time, Mimosa's fingers tightened at her sides until the fabric of her sleeves creased beneath her grip. Her nails pressed into her palms, a quiet, stubborn ache grounding her where she stood. She kept her face composed, chin lifted, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
But her chest burned.
Those words scraped against memories she hadn't forgotten—of a silver-haired girl offering her a hand, of sharp remarks that hid concern, of a presence that never looked away when things became difficult.
They were wrong.
She knew it the moment she saw Noelle again—not standing tall before an audience, not praised or admired, but alone in a battered stretch of ground, surrounded by torn earth and broken stone. Magic surged and faltered around her, wild and unyielding, yet her stance never wavered.
In that instant, Mimosa understood.
When House Silva's estate backyard looked like a battlefield. When stone lay cracked and torn open, earth scarred with craters that steamed faintly in the sun. When walls leaned at broken angles, stubbornly upright despite everything thrown at them. And when water clung to surfaces it shouldn't have, trembling under unstable control.
At the center stood Noelle.
Her breathing came fast. Her shoulders shook—not with fear, but strain. Magic surged around her in uneven waves, powerful and wild, slipping through her grasp even as she fought to rein it in.
Her hands trembled.
She raised them again anyway.
Mimosa watched from a distance, heart tight in her chest. She saw the clenched jaw. The narrowed eyes. The way Noelle reset her stance each time she failed was by refusing to step back.
This was what the others never spoke of.
The resolve.
The refusal to stop.
Even when mocked.
Even when alone.
Noelle practiced again. And again. And again—until new spells answered her persistence, slow and stubborn as roots breaking stone.
Mimosa understood then.
Strength was not always loud.
Sometimes, it was relentless.
.
.
.
The memory released her gently.
Green light trembled under Mimosa's palms as she returned to the present—the dungeon's Treasure Hall blazing with gold and danger alike. Noelle lay before her now, bloodied and unmoving, breath shallow beneath layers of magic, trying desperately to protect her.
Xierra knelt close, cherry blossoms drifting through the brightening light, her focus unwavering. Mimosa felt the harmony between their spells, how they wove together in shared purpose.
Still, fear clawed at her ribs.
Her fingers pressed closer to Noelle's side, careful not to jostle her. Mimosa leaned in, voice catching as she whispered encouragement. Noelle could not yet answer.
You always stood back up.
Her magic flared brighter, leaves thickening, light pouring into every fragile place she could reach.
So please, Mimosa begged the girl who had once offered her a hand, do it again.
The dungeon's Treasure Hall groaned under the weight of battle, stone dust drifting through fractured light as magic pulsed in overlapping hues. Gold and crystal reflected the glow of healing spells, bending it into something warmer, almost gentle, despite the chaos pressing in from every direction. Noelle lay between them, breath uneven, silver hair spread across the cold floor like spilled moonlight. Mimosa refused to look away.
"If I were her..." Mimosa breathed, voice unsteady as her fingers trembled above the wound she was desperately trying to mend. Her shoulders tightened, then fell, as if the thought itself weighed too much to hold. "I might've given up a long time ago..."
Her gaze flickered—just once—to Noelle's face. There was no bitterness in her eyes. Only awe, and something close to fear. Fear of how strong someone had to be to never stop standing back up.
Xierra glanced up from her grimoire, surprise flashing across her features before settling into quiet understanding. She did not interrupt. She never did. Her hands hovered inches above Noelle, palms glowing with layered light as cherry blossom petals and star-like blooms intertwined beneath her control. Mana gathered obediently around her fingers, responding to her steady breathing, her focus unbroken.
"All the royals make fun of hard work," Mimosa continued, her lips pressing thin before the words forced their way out. Her grip tightened on her grimoire, knuckles paling. "They say it's for those who were born without power. That it's... unbecoming. Not something royals should ever need to do."
Her voice wavered.
She hated that it did.
"But—" She paused, drawing in a sharp breath that lifted her chest, eyes glistening as she steadied herself. "But she never listened. Not once."
Xierra noticed the inhale, the way Mimosa's shoulders trembled before she straightened again. She wanted to speak—to reassure, to comfort—but she held back, letting the moment belong to Mimosa. A small smile curved her lips instead, quiet and encouraging, as the astral flowers beneath Noelle brightened in response.
"But you can work hard," Mimosa went on, the words stronger now, certain. Her eyes stayed fixed on Noelle as if speaking directly to her heart. "And I really respect you for it."
Something eased.
Xierra felt it before she understood it—a warmth that had nothing to do with magic. She had always loved those words. Work hard. Simple. Honest. Unchanging, no matter the order they were placed in. They were not promises of victory or power. They were proof of choosing to keep going.
The petals shimmered brighter.
For a moment, Xierra's chest ached—not with exhaustion, but with something fuller. Gratitude. Pride. The kind of feeling that made the strain worthwhile.
Nearby, Inari let out a sharp laugh, teeth flashing as he finally caught sight of his master's smile.
"Hm. You certainly took your time smiling, Master," he remarked, embers coiling at his jaws as another wave of Talos Dolls surged forward. His tail flicked once in open annoyance before he exhaled fire with renewed intent, shattering crystal bodies across the stone. "Do refrain from interrupting. I am in the middle of savoring my victory."
He slammed a paw into the stone, blue slashes tearing upward from the ground in jagged arcs. The dolls split apart, collapsing in glittering pieces that clattered uselessly to the floor.
Inari lifted his chin, eyes closed, indulging in his hard-earned triumph. "Ah, exquisite. Victories like this deserve proper appreciation—"
The moment was shattered as more figures surged forward, hollow gazes fixed upon him. "Oh, for the love of—must you all insist on impeccable timing?"
"Less commentary," Yuno called from across the hall, wind spiraling tight around his blade as he cut through another advance. His gaze flicked briefly toward the fox. "More burning."
Inari cracked one eye open, unimpressed. "How comforting. Criticism from a child who treats danger like a morning stretch."
Despite himself, Yuno's mouth twitched into a smile.
Inari then clicked his tongue and turned back with a low growl, his breath flaring to life once more. Complaints threaded through each burst of flame, every strike driven by equal parts irritation and fierce loyalty. "Good heavens—how inexhaustible you are. Do you creatures possess any skill beyond the art of making yourselves intolerable?"
Behind him, Xierra wiped sweat from her brow with her sleeve, a bead trailing down her temple. She forced a steady breath, refusing to turn around. "These spells..." she admitted through a quiet exhale, voice strained. "They're harder to maintain than I thought."
Still, she did not stop.
Mimosa mirrored her effort, adjusting her stance, layering smaller spells atop her main incantation. Green light intertwined with astral glow and drifting petals, all three recovery spells converging on Noelle's battered form. The air itself seemed to hum with intent—to protect, to preserve.
Across the hall, Klaus steadied himself, feeling strength return to his limbs, while Yuno exhaled in relief he did not voice. Even Luck, scratched and grinning wide, laughed as electricity sparked around him. "Haha! Guess we're not done yet!"
And at the center of it all, Mimosa held on—hands trembling, heart aching, praying that the girl who had once reached out to her would take that hand again.
However, things did not unfold as they had hoped.
Mars broke into a sprint, boots hammering against stone with a weight that felt unnatural, as though the dungeon itself recoiled from his advance. A cruel gleam burned behind his eyes, sharp and unblinking, fixed squarely on the two female mages before him. His mouth moved around words that barely formed—ragged syllables steeped in bitterness, each one flung like a curse meant to strip them of breath and resolve alike.
Mimosa stiffened, fingers tightening around the edge of her grimoire. Xierra shifted instinctively in front of her, shoulders squared despite the tremor threading through her arms. The air pressed in, heavy with mana pushed to its breaking point.
From the corner of his narrowing vision, Mars caught sight of movement—wind gathering, steel lifting, and resolve hardening. Yuno was already preparing his spell, emerald weaving with silver currents coiling around him, while the remaining Clover mages surged forward without hesitation. Mars reacted without pause. He swept his mineral-laden arm across the ground.
Crystal erupted.
The floor bloomed into jagged growths that snapped shut around their legs, then their waists, then higher still. In the space of a breath, three figures were sealed within towering prisms of gleaming confinement.
Luck slammed his palms against the inner wall, sparks snapping uselessly against unyielding crystal. Klaus ground out, jaw clenched, glasses skewed as he strained against his prison. "If I could just use the spells in my grimoire...!!!"
"Xierra!!" Yuno's voice cut through the hall, sharp with urgency.
The sound never reached her.
All Mimosa and Xierra could register were the thunderous steps closing in, each one sending vibrations through the ground beneath their knees. The crystal formations surrounding them snapped and creaked, responding to Mars' mana like obedient extensions of his will. One misstep—one flicker of lost focus—and the pressure would become unbearable.
Xierra's thoughts raced. If she had been a second faster—if her spell had risen sooner—she might have intercepted the surge, might have forced the crystal to bend or bloom elsewhere. But the truth settled heavily in her chest. Their reserves were thinning. Her magic strained just to maintain what she had already cast.
Mars slowed as he approached, towering over them, his presence blotting out the light of the Treasure Hall. A jagged smile twisted across his face as he spoke, voice low and assured.
"I'm fine on my own. I have vast magic."
Each step he took afterward felt deliberate, measured, as if he were savoring the fear tightening their lungs. Mimosa swallowed, heart pounding so hard it hurt, while Xierra held her ground, teeth set, refusing to yield even as dread curled deep within her core.
Even Inari could do little more than hold the line.
Blue fire roared from his jaws in relentless arcs, striking down Talos Dolls as they advanced, forcing them back with scorched crystal and shattered limbs. Yet every breath he unleashed met its limit when it came to Mars himself.
The flames licked uselessly against the mineral armor that encased the man, skidding off polished facets without leaving so much as a scorch. The failure set Inari's teeth on edge, his tail snapping sharply against the stone as frustration burned hotter than his fire.
It was not enough.
Mars stood unmoved, towering and absolute, his presence bending the air around him. His rose-tinted eyes glimmered with something unsteady—conviction sharpened to madness.
"Those without magic are weak," he declared, voice stripped of warmth. "The weak are not needed."
The words pressed into the Treasure Hall like a verdict, cold and final. Mimosa felt her breath hitch as the mana around Mars shifted, thickening into something suffocating. Xierra's fingers curled tight against her palm, nails biting into skin as they all fought to remain grounded.
A viscous, gray sheen gathered along Mars' armored arm. It swelled, pooled, then stretched outward, sculpted by his will into elongated forms. Blades emerged—curved, cruel, gleaming with a muted luster that caught the hall's light in broken reflections. One became many. Many became countless.
They hovered in the air beside him, aligned with dreadful precision, each pointed toward the two Clover mages frozen in their path.
Mimosa's eyes widened, heart hammering so violently she feared it might tear free of her chest. Xierra swallowed hard, the world narrowing to the sharpened tips trained on them. She could feel the strain in her magic, the thinness of what remained. There was nowhere left to retreat.
Mars drew in a measured breath, shoulders rising beneath layers of crystal.
"The weak," he continued, voice dropping into something almost reverent, "should vanish...!!"
Time collapsed.
In that instant, the world fractured into fragments of memory—sunlit corridors, shared laughter, outstretched hands. Everything they had been. Everything they still wished to be. Fear burned bright and sharp, yet beneath it lived something stubborn, something unwilling to yield.
The blades moved.
They cut through the air faster than thought, a silver-gray storm racing toward their throats, leaving no space for seconds to matter at all.
Blink, and the moment was already gone.
Asta cut between them with reckless precision, boots skidding across the stone as he planted himself squarely in front of Mimosa and Xierra. The unfamiliar and newly held anti-sword rested firm in his grasp, its dark edge humming with a presence that devoured magic itself. He did not hesitate. One clean swing tore through the incoming blades, the curved swords unraveling midair as if they had never been real to begin with.
Metal rang against stone as the remnants scattered uselessly across the floor.
Asta stayed where he was, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on Mars' towering frame. His jaw tightened, chest rising and falling as he measured the enemy before him, searching for the next strike that would surely come.
It did.
Another tide of silver rushed forward, sharper and faster than before. Asta stepped into it without retreat, the anti-sword carving wide arcs through the storm. Each swing erased crystal with brutal finality, clearing a path where none should have existed.
Behind him, Inari bristled.
Blue flames danced along the fox's frame as a low hiss slipped from his throat, fury aimed squarely at Mars. Yet beneath the irritation sat something else—something bright and unwilling to be hidden. Approval. The fox drew back a few steps, positioning himself closer to Xierra, his posture alert but no longer strained.
"Master," Inari addressed her with measured composure, his voice carrying a polished sharpness even in the chaos. "It appears that your little anti-magic friend possessed more merit than I had initially credited."
Xierra released a breath she had not realized she was holding, her shoulders loosening just a fraction. "It's reassuring to hear you finally acknowledge that fact, Inari. And I'm relieved you seem less dismissive."
Inari sniffed, chin lifting. "My concern had never been about courtesy. Ensuring your safety had always taken precedence above all else."
That earned him a look she did not turn outward. Amusement warmed her expression despite herself. She countered that he had never been particularly forthcoming when it came to praising others.
The fox scoffed, denying the claim with practiced dignity.
The smile that curved Xierra's lips surprised even her. The battlefield was no place for it, she knew that well. Still, watching Asta stand firm—unwavering, relentless—made something hopeful bloom in her chest. He continued to surpass expectations, again and again. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to one day stand on equal ground with him.
Across the hall, Mars faltered.
His eyes widened, rose-tinted pupils stretching as he watched his magic dissolve before the boy's blade. Confusion bled into disbelief. Even with his regeneration still burning beneath his armor, certainty began to crack. The power Asta wielded defied everything Mars had been taught, everything he believed to be absolute.
Asta rolled his shoulders once, settling the sword against one side as he stepped forward. He drew in a deep breath, planting his feet with intent, voice carrying clear across the Treasure Hall.
"Your opponent," he declared,
His grin flashed sharp and fearless as he raised the blade.
"...is right here!!"
Steel met steel with a sound sharp enough to sting the air.
Asta drove forward, teeth clenched, arms steady despite the violent resistance pressing back against him. Mars' conjured blades collided with his own in quick succession, crystal edges blooming and dying beneath the sweep of anti-magic. Each strike unraveled the spell before it could fully breathe, snuffed out by the dark sheen of Asta's sword.
The floor beneath their boots bore witness to the exchange—powdered stone skidding away, fine cracks racing outward as force after force collided. Asta did not slow. He advanced, step by earned step, the weight of countless bruises, failures, and shouted doubts carrying him onward instead of dragging him down.
This blade felt different in his hands.
Lighter. Truer.
After years of wrestling with a sword that demanded everything from his shoulders and spine, this one answered him with a grace he had never known. It followed his intent without hesitation, as if it understood why he swung it. The realization burned bright in his chest, fueling the next arc of his attack.
Mars barely had time to react.
Asta tore through the storm of summoned weapons, black energy cleaving a path straight toward the Diamond Kingdom mage. The final slash landed squarely, driving Mars backward. His armored body skidded across the treasury floor, carving deep grooves into the stone before crashing to a halt.
Xierra's breath caught.
She knew—she knew—that it would not be enough. Mars' armor still held, and the warmth of his healing flames curled protectively around him. And yet, seeing him thrown aside like that made her heart leap all the same.
The damage sealed itself almost instantly. Crystal reformed. The glow of restoration pulsed once more.
Mars retaliated.
His crystal-covered hand swung with brutal precision, connecting solidly with Asta's torso. The impact sent a dull shock through the chamber. Dust lifted. Air shuddered.
Mars' eyes widened.
Asta remained standing.
His boots scraped back only a fraction, knees bent, but he did not fall. He straightened slowly, breath heavy but controlled, dark blade still held firm in his grasp.
That was when they noticed it.
The carved veins along Asta's new sword glimmered with a faint, reddish light. Not bright enough to blaze—but alive. The residual heat of Mars' flames had not dissipated into the air. They had been drawn inward, swallowed by the weapon itself.
Xierra felt it then—a subtle shift, a whisper of elemental presence coiled within the silver-black edge. Proof. Undeniable and startling.
The sword was learning.
The clash showed no signs of ending. Their powers ground against one another like opposing tides, neither yielding ground. Xierra tried to pull her eyes away, tried to focus on anything else, but her gaze remained tethered to Asta as if by thread and will alone.
"What are you doing... Dorksta...?"
The weak voice startled her.
A trembling sensation brushed against her palms. Xierra looked down sharply, heart lurching, to find Noelle stirring beneath her support. The noble's breathing was uneven, lashes fluttering as awareness struggled back into her expression. Though the bleeding had stopped, exhaustion still clung to her like frost.
"Noelle?!" Xierra called, unable to keep the alarm from her voice.
She had not expected her to wake so soon, though hope had begged for it.
"Miss Noelle!" Mimosa rushed closer, her face mirroring the same mix of relief and fear. Tears gathered instantly at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision no matter how fiercely she tried to blink them away.
Across the chamber, Asta heard his nickname.
He turned, momentarily breaking his focus from Mars. His grin came easily, familiar and bright despite the sweat streaking his face.
"Noelle!"
Noelle forced herself upright with a stubborn huff, muscles protesting the effort. Xierra slid an arm behind her shoulders at once, steadying her, while Mimosa reinforced her healing spell. Warm light wrapped around Noelle as Xierra added what little focus she could spare, balancing the strain of supporting her weight.
Noelle's eyes opened fully at last.
They fixed on Asta.
"I'm a royal," she began, voice unsteady but firming with each word, "and you..."
Her fingers curled weakly against the fabric at her side.
"You're the first commoner I ever acknowledged."
The meaning behind her stare was unmistakable. Pride. Trust. Something fierce and newly claimed.
Asta's chest tightened.
Noelle lifted her chin, blue eyes blazing despite her fatigue. "That guy's nothing," she declared, the words pushing strength into the space between them. "So hurry up and crush him... Asta."
The sound of his name landed solidly, anchoring him.
Asta's grin widened—not wild this time, but warm, resolute. He turned back toward Mars, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the last of his doubt.
Whatever game this was, he had no intention of losing.
Asta moved as though a memory had slipped into his bones.
Children's games were never gentle things. They were born in scraped knees and dirt-streaked hands, in rules shouted and rewritten mid-play, in contests where pride mattered more than victory. Back then, winning had meant standing even when their legs shook, laughing even when they were outmatched, refusing to stay down simply because someone bigger had told them to.
There had never been referees. Never mercy.
Only the stubborn choice to keep going.
This fight felt the same.
Mars stood before him like an unbeatable opponent from those half-forgotten days—stronger, armored, convinced of his own certainty. But Asta had learned long ago that games like these were not decided by who struck first or hardest. They were decided by who endured. By those who refused to drop the stick, abandon the field, or admit that the other side had already won.
Behind him, Noelle breathed.
Mimosa held her ground.
Xierra watched with quiet faith.
They were waiting for him.
They believed in him.
Asta tightened his grip on the sword that had chosen him back.
If this were a child's game, then he would play it the only way he ever had—by standing his ground until the end, laughing in the face of impossible odds, and turning every doubt into fuel.
The treasury seemed to hold its breath as he stepped forward once more.
And somewhere between past and present, between boyhood defiance and hard-earned resolve, the rules shattered completely.
To Be Continued...