Asta stood in the darkness, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the figure ahead. The space around them felt heavy, not empty but dense, as if every part of it carried pressure that pressed lightly against his skin. It wasn't threatening in a direct way, but it wasn't neutral either—it was the kind of space that reacted to presence, and right now it was reacting to both of them. The figure in front of him shifted slightly, its form still large and unnatural, but no longer unquestioned. The darkness around its body seemed to move with it, stretching and tightening as if the shape itself wasn't completely stable. Asta didn't let that distract him.
He spoke first.
"I know who you are."
The words didn't echo, but they carried. The figure's eyes narrowed slightly as Asta continued, his voice steady and controlled, not rushed, not hesitant.
"Liebe."
The name settled into the space like something that didn't belong there. For a moment, nothing moved, then the response came—slower, sharper.
"…Say that again."
The tone had changed. It wasn't amused anymore, nor casual. It carried weight.
Asta didn't repeat himself. Instead, he stepped forward, his expression unchanged as he continued, "You were thrown from the underworld. No magic, no place, no one willing to accept you. The only reason you survived was because you didn't die." His eyes didn't leave Liebe as he added, with a slight pause, "…and the only reason you ever saw anything different was because of her."
That was when it broke.
The space shifted—not violently, but enough to make the change clear.
"…Don't."
The voice dropped, lower this time, heavier.
Asta didn't stop.
"Licita."
The reaction was immediate. The pressure in the space tightened, not exploding outward but pulling inward, like something was compressing everything around them. Liebe's gaze locked onto him fully now, no distance left, no casual observation.
"…How do you know that name?"
Asta didn't look away. This was the point.
"She is my mother, she took you in," Asta said, his voice steady but firm. "Fed you. Protected you. Treated you like you weren't something to throw away." His tone didn't soften, but it wasn't cold either—it was direct, grounded.
Liebe's expression shifted for the first time. Not fully anger, not completely disbelief—but something close.
"…She never mentioned anyone else."
That wasn't denial. That was doubt.
"She couldn't," Asta replied immediately.
The space quieted slightly.
"My mother absorbs magic—anything around her. People, spells, even life if it stays too close for too long. That's why she left me at the church." He paused briefly before adding but she doesn't know "I don't have magic."
That line settled differently.
"And you don't either. That's why you could stay with her."
Silence followed, but this time it wasn't empty. It was heavy, layered with meaning.
Liebe didn't respond immediately. His gaze moved over Asta again, slower now, not judging strength but searching for something deeper. The resemblance wasn't perfect, but it was there—enough to make it real.
"…So that's why," Liebe muttered quietly.
Asta didn't push further. He didn't need to.
Instead, he shifted the conversation forward, not emotionally but logically. "If we want to have our revenge…" The words were simple, but they carried weight. "…then you already know what comes next."
Liebe's eyes lifted again, focused now.
"Being like this isn't enough," Asta continued. "Not for you. Not for me." There was no aggression in his tone, just clear reasoning. "I can feel the anti-magic, but that's all I can do. It doesn't move when I want it to. It doesn't respond." He paused briefly before adding, "You're the same."
It wasn't an insult. It was a mirror.
"You can't act outside without me, and you can't use your power freely in this state. So let's stop pretending either of us can do anything alone."
The words didn't challenge—they settled.
Liebe didn't react immediately, but the space around them shifted again, slower this time, as if adjusting instead of resisting.
"…You talk like you've already decided everything," Liebe said.
Asta shook his head slightly. "No," he replied after a brief pause. "I'm just not wasting time."
That answer didn't push, but it didn't bend either.
Another silence followed, longer this time, before Liebe finally moved. As he stepped closer, the exaggerated scale around him flickered again, the illusion weakening. The wings no longer felt distant, and the body no longer stretched endlessly into the dark. It didn't break completely, but it revealed enough—he wasn't unreachable, and he wasn't untouchable.
He stopped close to Asta.
"You're right about one thing," Liebe said slowly.
Asta didn't interrupt.
"I can't give you everything. Your body can't handle it. What you felt—that small amount—is already close to your limit."
Asta listened carefully.
"If I push more into you, it won't make you stronger. It'll just break you."
That wasn't a warning. It was a fact.
"So I need to adapt," Asta said.
Liebe nodded slightly. "Exactly."
Asta thought for a moment, just enough, then asked, "And control?"
Liebe exhaled lightly. "I can help you with that," he said.
Asta's eyes sharpened slightly.
"But not much," Liebe added. "I'm sealed here. I can guide the flow, help you understand how it should move, but the actual control depends on you."
Asta absorbed that without hesitation.
"The grimoire connects us," Liebe continued. "Your thoughts reach it. That's why you can call the sword, why you can touch the anti-magic at all. If you refine that connection, you'll gain better control."
Asta nodded once.
That was enough.
"Then we start there."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Liebe smiled—not mocking, not amused, but something quieter and sharper.
"…Let's see how far you can go."
The darkness around them shifted again, not collapsing or breaking, but settling—like something had finally begun.
The moment Asta opened his eyes, the forest returned.
The weight of the real world settled back onto his body, replacing the strange pressure of that inner space. The sounds came first—the rustle of leaves, distant insects, the faint movement of wind through branches. Then the feeling of the ground beneath him, solid and familiar.
But something had changed.
Not outside.
Inside.
Asta remained where he stood after returning, letting his breathing settle as he turned his attention inward again. This time, the moment his focus shifted, he found it immediately. The anti-magic was easier to sense now, no longer something distant that required deep concentration. It felt familiar, like something his body had already adjusted to after being surrounded by it inside that space.
He tightened his grip on the sword slightly and focused again, this time with intent instead of observation. The connection between him, the grimoire, and the blade felt clearer, like a thin thread that had become easier to follow. When he willed it to move, the anti-magic responded, faint but noticeable, flowing through him and toward the sword.
Asta lifted the blade and focused on the edge, pushing that flow forward with a clear purpose. Instead of spreading it across the entire weapon, he directed it along the sharp side, trying to reinforce it. The metal reacted slowly at first, then thin dark lines appeared along the edge, spreading unevenly like cracks filling with ink. It didn't cover the blade, only tracing along the parts where his focus held strongest.
He swung.
The cut landed cleanly.
The tree split faster than before, the resistance noticeably lower.
Asta glanced at the blade again. The lines were still there, but they were fading. He adjusted his grip and tried again, this time sending the anti-magic forward more directly instead of letting it spread.
The response came quicker.
The lines formed sooner, holding a little longer.
He stepped forward and struck again, then again, each swing smoother than the last as his control improved slightly with every attempt. The difference wasn't overwhelming, but it was clear. The blade felt sharper in his hands, and the connection no longer slipped as easily.
Asta paused for a moment, then shifted his focus back inward. The anti-magic inside his body moved a little more easily now, responding faster when he reached for it. It still required attention, but it no longer felt distant or unresponsive.
"…Good."
He exhaled once, steady and calm, before raising the sword again.
This time, he didn't hesitate.