They traveled down the path in single file, Frieren bringing up the front with her usual unhurried pace. Percia brought up the rear, steps measured and silent, eyes flicking over every shift in the stone, every faint pulse of ambient mana. The ribbon—thin, iridescent, yet unyielding—stretched between them, binding the group.
For a long stretch, nothing happened. No traps. No demons. No change in the corridor's monotonous gray walls.
Stark, walking in the middle, finally broke the quiet.
"Hey… haven't we been walking for a while? Why's nothing happening? The walls don't even seem to change either…"
Fern frowned, glancing back at him, then forward again. "What do you mean? We're in a completely different corridor."
They stared at each other for a heartbeat—confusion mirroring confusion—before both turned at the same time.
"Percia—"
Except she wasn't there.
Stark's stomach dropped. "Wha—" He stammered, stumbling backward in instinctive panic, straight into Fern.
He walked right through her.
His body passed through empty air where Fern's shoulder should have been. He froze, eyes wide, staring at the spot where she had just stood. Fern stared back at him—her form flickering once, like heat haze over stone—violet eyes startled but still calm.
"Stop moving so much," came Frieren's voice, placid and close. "You'll tangle the ribbon."
Stark whipped around, searching. Nothing. No white hair. No small figure ahead. His breath hitched.
"Frieren?!"
A soft sigh drifted from somewhere—everywhere. "Keep your voice down, Stark."
He nearly sobbed the words. "What do you mean… where are you?"
"Look up," Frieren said simply.
He did.
There she was—standing on the ceiling as though gravity were optional. Her robes hung downward toward him, white hair dangling like inverted snow, green eyes regarding him with the same unchanging calm. Nothing about her posture suggested she should be falling. She simply… was.
"I told you," a voice spoke out. "This corridor makes you confused."
Stark yelped as Percia seemed to materialize right beside him—sudden, silent. He stared.
Her face was wrong.
Eyes too large, pupils stretched like black lakes. Nose too small, almost nonexistent. Mouth a thin, unnatural line that didn't quite match the rest of her features. The proportions were off in a way that made his skin crawl.
She hummed, contemplative, studying him the way one might study a mildly interesting specimen.
"It seems you are affected more than us," she said, voice cool and precise, "it may be due to your lack of regular mana usage."
He stammered, voice cracking. "What's going on?"
Percia replied simply, without inflection. "The ribbon only keeps us from separating. Everything else can be affected by the illusory magic of this corridor. My only advice to you is to limit your movement so the ribbon doesn't tangle. We wouldn't want it to snap."
Stark's hands clenched around the haft of his axe. His knuckles were white.
Frieren's voice again, gentle but firm. "Trust your instincts, Stark."
He looked back up—where she had been standing on the ceiling.
She was no longer there.
"Over here."
He whipped his head around.
Frieren was no longer humanoid.
Instead she was part of the wall—like a squished bug pressed flat against glass. Her face was distorted, eyes enormous and glassy, limbs smeared thin and translucent across the stone. White hair fanned out in impossible directions, as though caught in invisible wind.
She sighed at his horrified expression. "I don't know what you're seeing, Stark. But you need to trust your instinct."
"There is wrongness, yes," she continued, voice still calm even through the warped distortion. "Everything feels wrong to you. But there will be a time when, layered underneath that wrongness, where you feel danger. Believe in your gut."
A hand settled on his head—warm, steady. He couldn't see whose it was. The touch was light but grounding.
Percia's voice spoke right next to his ear, so close he felt the faint stir of breath against his skin. He shuddered.
"I promise you, Stark," she said quietly, "we are making progress. Just keep moving forward."
Stark swallowed hard. The ribbon still shimmered ahead—thin, steady, tugging gently. The only thing that hadn't changed.
He forced one foot in front of the other.
The corridor stretched on, lying in every direction except the one that mattered: forward.
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Fern frowned as she looked at Stark's pale face and shaking arms. His breathing came in shallow, uneven bursts; sweat beaded along his brow despite the dungeon's chill. The ribbon still connected them—thin, steady—but Stark looked like he might collapse any second.
"Frieren-sama," Fern said quietly, voice tight with worry, "isn't there anything we can do? He's… suffering."
Frieren hummed thoughtfully as she continued walking ahead of Fern, small steps unhurried, white hair swaying like frost in faint wind. "There are some things we can do, I suppose. But they would be mana-intensive and ultimately futile." She didn't turn. "This illusory curse has been embedded into the corridor for a very long time—continuously channeled with huge amounts of mana for decades, maybe longer. It is designed to keep stragglers from reaching the end. We will all succumb to this magic eventually. Even me."
She paused mid-step, then turned. Her red eyes—clear, unchanging—met Fern's violet ones with quiet intensity.
"We will reach the end eventually. I believe that once we investigate what is at the end, the illusion will lift." Another brief pause. "Or… we can teleport ourselves out of here. Can't we, Percia?"
Fern turned to look at Percia.
Percia was already watching Frieren, expression utterly unchanged—cool, distant, midnight-blue eyes unreadable.
"Wouldn't you like to know," she murmured.
She reached past Stark, fingers closing gently but firmly around Fern's shoulder. She pulled the younger mage closer until Fern stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the frozen warrior.
Frieren tilted her head slightly. "What's wrong?"
Percia didn't respond to her. Instead leaned over Fern's shoulder, voice softening—just a fraction, the way one might speak to a skittish animal.
"Do you see anything wrong with Frieren, Fern?"
Fern frowned and studied the figure ahead. Snow-white hair falling in familiar waves. Ruby-red eyes. Red crescent-tipped staff in one hand. Red earrings glinting—the ones she had inherited from Flamme.
Fern's stomach twisted. She didn't understand why.
"No," she answered slowly, "I don't see anything wrong…"
Percia hummed in quiet acknowledgment. "Well then, Fern. I think it's time you trusted your instincts too." Her gaze never left Fern's face. "It seems the curse affects you by altering your understanding of norm."
Fern tilted her head, confused. "My norm?"
Frieren sighed—a soft, almost fond sound. "You are being too wary, Percia. You said it yourself: mages are less susceptible to this type of magic."
She stepped forward and reached out, grasping Fern's arm to guide her back to her original position. The touch was firm. Too firm.
Fern's eyes widened.
"Zoltraak."
The spell erupted point-blank.
A gaping wound tore open in the figure's side. Blood—impossibly vivid—spilled down white robes. The arm holding Fern's was obliterated in a flash of dark mana, shredded to nothing from shoulder to fingertips.
"F-Fern?" The voice was Frieren's—soft, confused. Those red eyes shimmered with hurt bewilderment. "What's wrong?"
"That's right, Fern," Percia said calmly from behind her. "What gave it away?"
Fern turned. Percia's midnight-blue eyes bore into hers—steady, unflinching. Fern's hands shook as she lowered her staff. She glided her free hand over the arm that had just been grabbed. The memory of the touch lingered: rough. Possessive. Hungry.
"Frieren-sama's touch…" Fern whispered. "It was rough. She's never touched me like that before. I could feel… bloodlust behind it."
"Good." Percia nodded once. "Remember that feeling."
She turned her gaze to Stark.
He hadn't moved in minutes. Blood now trickled down the side of his head—slow, dark rivulets from a wound that hadn't been there before. His hands gripped the axe in a high, offensive stance. His eyes were bleary, unfocused… yet locked forward with unnatural intensity.
"They are starting to attack," Percia explained, voice level. "Be wary, Fern."
Fern looked back at Percia. The trembling in her hands refused to stop.
Percia's eyes softened—just a flicker, almost imperceptible. She reached down and grasped Fern's shaking hand in her own. Warm. Steady. Real.
"Remember, Fern," she whispered. "I will protect all of you. No harm will come your way."
With that, Percia faded—simply dissolved into motes of silver-blue mana that drifted upward like dying fireflies.
Fern was alone in the corridor.
The ribbon still shimmered ahead, tugging gently.
That was when she remembered—properly remembered.
Her master had green eyes.
Not red.
Never red.
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Frieren could feel it when she finally succumbed to the magic.
It crept in slowly at first—like the quiet settling of dust after a spell fades—then all at once, a gentle, inexorable pull on her senses. The corridor's walls stood too rigid; the ribbon around her wrist tightened.
Before the haze fully claimed her, she called out, voice soft but clear.
"Percia… you have to take over at the front. I am succumbing to the magic."
Silence answered.
Then a low, honey-smooth voice—warm, familiar, achingly gentle—spoke from behind her.
"Percia? Who's that?"
Frieren knew this voice. She didn't dare turn around.
She looked up at the ceiling instead and sighed, long and quiet.
"You know… I miss when these types of magic conjured Flamme instead." A small, wry smile touched her lips. "First the Einsam, and now this."
She turned.
There he stood.
Sky-blue eyes, soft and bright as summer noon. Pale blue hair falling just to his shoulders, neat and cared-for as always. The small mole beneath his left eye, dark against fair skin. He wore the same beige cloak, the same gentle smile that had once lit entire villages.
Her heart ached.
Himmel blinked, confused. He looked around the monotonous corridor before settling his gaze back on her.
"Where are we, Frieren?"
Frieren regarded him steadily. "I wonder if there's a point in explaining to you. You are just an illusion created by demons."
Himmel frowned, tilting his head. "Is it Grausam?"
Frieren raised an eyebrow. "Of the Seven Sages? I wouldn't know. I've never fought him."
He paused, as though considering, then smiled—that same easy, disarming smile she had carried in memory for decades now.
"It doesn't feel like Grausam anyway."
He walked past her without hesitation, ignoring the subtle probe of her gaze. His steps were light, confident, the way they had been on sunlit roads long ago.
He glanced back at her over his shoulder, gentle and patient.
"Come on now. You wanted this Percia fellow to lead the way, right? Seeing that she's not here… I'll lead the way for you."
Frieren frowned. "You're an illusion."
"I know," Himmel said simply. His voice was soft, honest. "And you know that I would never harm you. Illusion or not."
Frieren looked down at the ribbon tied around her wrist. It tugged gently—forward, toward him.
She looked up again, a quiet smile curving her lips.
"Okay," she said. "Let's have another adventure, shall we?"
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Percia sighed as Frieren's voice trailed off into soft, contented silence. The small elf's smile lingered—gentle, distant—as though the illusion walking beside her was the most natural thing in the world.
Percia stepped smoothly in front of her, taking the lead without comment. The ribbon tugged faintly at her wrist, still binding the group even as reality frayed around them. Behind her, Stark's form remained unnervingly steady now—axe held low, eyes forward, no longer trembling. Fern's shoulders stayed tense, staff gripped tight, violet eyes flicking between the walls. And Frieren… Frieren simply smiled, walking with light steps as if this were another pleasant stroll through forgotten ruins.
Percia let out an exasperated sigh, the sound barely audible, accompanied by the tiniest upward curve of her lips.
Out of the three of them, she worried most about Frieren.
She was the type to let the illusion take hold of her out of pure curiosity.
Percia's eyes lingered on the cursed runes below, etched into the stone floor in jagged, pulsing lines. They had been blinking frantically over the past few minutes—almost panicked, as if sensing something irreversible approaching. She could feel it in the air too: the mana growing stagnant, thick and trapped, with nowhere left to flow. The corridor's ambient pressure had shifted, coiling inward like a held breath.
They were almost at the end.
"You've stagnated," a voice spoke up next to her—cold, measured, laced with that familiar disappointed edge.
She didn't need to turn to know who the illusion had conjured up. In fact, she didn't want to. She could already imagine the face: sharp features, unyielding gaze, the same midnight eyes that stared back at her every time she caught her reflection in still water.
Chilled hands grabbed onto hers with faux gentleness, fingers interlocking like old chains.
"Please don't," Percia spoke up. An imperceptible shudder ran through her. "Your presence alone is uncomfortable enough."
The voice sighed—contemplative, almost theatrical. "My dear daughter. So avoidant. So unloving. I wonder where I went wrong."
Percia's voice stayed flat. "You did raise me in a cult."
"Oh? And does that make the Goddess a cult leader?" The tone turned amused, light as if discussing the weather.
Percia shrugged, gaze fixed forward. "She was once one of us. You guys are the ones who put her on a pedestal."
"Because it was necessary," the voice answered smoothly. "You know that better than I do." A pause. "After all, you're the one who allowed for the Goddess's antithesis to evolve."
"Blame me all you want," Percia said, eyes boring ahead, disinterest evident. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."
"Yes," the voice agreed. "But it happened too soon."
Another pause, heavier this time.
"Demonic evolution was supposed to happen eons from now," the voice continued. The hand clenched tighter around hers. "They were supposed to grow human features— mimic human speech, their habits—much later than this."
"You're the one who let the corruption enter the world."
Percia pursed her lips. "It's not like I wanted that responsibility. You kinda just shoved it onto me with no explanation."
"Yet you still hold it," the voice murmured. "Even you understand its importance."
Percia didn't respond.
They walked in silence for a stretch—Percia guiding the ribbon forward, Frieren, Stark, and Fern stumbling along behind her in their illusion-addled states.
The voice spoke again, quieter this time. "I say that you have stagnated because you have not yet determined the true purpose of this corridor."
Percia paused—slightly defensive. "It feels like something that boy made up. Fed mana continuously even after his death. It keeps people from reaching the end, where it holds something."
"Wrong," the voice cut through, sharp. "Again."
Percia's jaw tightened.
"It's a cursed illusory rune pathway made by the Demon King," she said. "It has been fed mana continuously to maintain it. It prevents people from reaching the end."
"Wrong." The tone didn't change, but the hand tightened harder—near painful.
Percia let silence fall between them as she continued on. She could see the end of the corridor now: the runes flickered more erratically below her feet, as if their mere presence was destabilizing the entire weave.
Why? Why destabilize now?
Because it's served its use? No—it had failed.
Because it aimed to launch a final blast? No—she could feel the mana fading, its source shimmering faintly at the end of the corridor.
That made her pause.
Her hypothesis had been that demons lingered at the end, channeling mana into the pre-conceived ruins of the Demon King's trap to keep unwanted visitors out.
But why keep unwanted visitors out? Demons need to feed.
She could feel it in the way the air coiled—there was no other exit from this passage except the way they had come in.
No illusion is enough to kill on its own. It needs something to deliver a final blow. Yet there were no signs of past conflict in the corridor—no residual mana spikes, no bloodstains, no shattered stone from desperate struggles. No matter how long ago the struggle was, remnants of it should still remain.
Why build a corridor that leads straight to the ruins of the Goddess's temple? Demons would burn in it—holy ground, sanctified by the Goddess of Creation herself, whose monuments still held faint traces of her power even after mythical times.
Why have demon sentries linger outside and stand guard when the illusion itself fulfills the purpose for most intruders? When the ruin itself is inaccessible to all beings of this era?
"That's it," the voice spoke next to her. The grip tightened even more—she could feel her joints creak under the pressure. "So what is the true purpose of this corridor?"
Percia stopped at the end of the corridor, at the mouth of the cavern before them.
This corridor had been built by the Demon King to keep his brethren inside.
Those demons lingering outside weren't standing guard—they were trying to find a way in.
To free what it held.
Around them, the stagnant air finally broke.
The cursed runes along the floor flared one last time—bright, frantic, almost pleading—then guttered out like dying embers. Silence rushed in to replace the pressure, heavy and absolute.
A vast, circular chamber waited beyond the threshold. Chains of blackened iron—thick as a man's thigh—ran from the walls to the floor, binding demons in place.
These were not the sleek, human-mimicking kind that walked the world today. These were older, primal: scaled hides stretched taut over lean muscle, leathery wings folded awkwardly against their backs, horns curling like blackened thorns. Their faces were still monstrous—snouts, jagged teeth, eyes like glowing coals—more gargoyle than man. They slumped in their restraints with the dull idleness of beings who had long since given up struggling.
Scattered bones lay nearby, cracked and gnawed clean. Proof of desperate cannibalism born from centuries of unbearable hunger.
Percia exhaled once, softly.
The group behind her was beginning to reorient. Frieren's smile had faded into quiet focus; she blinked slowly, green eyes clearing as Himmel dissolved like mist. Stark shook his head hard, axe lowering slightly as color returned to his face. Fern's grip on her staff steadied, violet eyes darting across the chamber, taking in the chains, the bones, the waiting demons.
"Stay close," Percia murmured, voice low and even. She did not look back. "This isn't the end."
She stepped forward one measured pace.
"It seems we've accidentally aided in a prison break."