Stark slumped against Percia's side, the last of his adrenaline bleeding out. His axe hung loose in one hand; his shoulders sagged like a boy who had run too far only to find the road still stretching endlessly ahead.
"I've been fighting for how long in that illusion," he muttered, voice cracking, nearing a whine, "and there's more fighting? How's that fair?"
Percia shushed him—soft, sharp, wary. "Quiet, Stark. They're still dissociated. But, it won't take long for them to notice the rune is gone."
Fern tilted her head, brow creasing as she scanned the chamber again: heavy chains, scattered bones, ancient demons slumped in dull resignation.
"What exactly were these creatures trying to keep from us?" she asked, voice quiet but precise. "Why build those runes at all?"
Frieren was the one who answered.
She spoke slowly at first, eyes drifting across the rune-carved walls, the heavy chains, the slumped shapes of the ancient prisoners—as though the chamber itself were quietly whispering answers back to her.
"Those runes…" she murmured, almost to herself. "They're not containment wards directed outward. Not really."
She paused, tilting her head the way she sometimes did when reading an especially old grimoire whose logic ran counter to modern spellcraft.
"No. They're oriented inward. The mana flow is… restrictive. One-way. Like a cage turned inside out."
Fern and Stark turned sharply toward her.
Percia's hand moved without looking—swift, firm—clamping over Stark's mouth just as his jaw dropped to shout. Her eyes stayed locked on the chained demons.
Frieren didn't seem to notice the interruption. She was still tracing invisible lines in the air with her gaze.
"I remember seeing runes like this once," she continued, voice low and even, the same tone she used when explaining something obvious-yet-forgotten to a particularly slow apprentice. "Not the exact pattern, but the structure. In records from… long before. Before I was even born, technically."
She took one small step closer to the nearest chain, studying the way the metal had blackened where it met scale.
"Winged. Scaled. Barely humanoid. No mimicry of speech, no attempt at human faces. The kind of demons that never bothered learning how to imitate us because they didn't need to. They're old."
Her green eyes narrowed slightly.
"That's why the suppression felt so… heavy. Familiar." She glanced back toward the dark passage they had come through, as though seeing something centuries older than the stone. "I thought the signature was just age. But it isn't just age."
She turned fully toward Percia now.
The shift in her expression was subtle, but absolute: no warmth, no curiosity, no trace of the quiet fondness that sometimes slipped through. Just cool, unyielding distance—the look of someone who had already lived through too many similar revelations.
"These runes were never meant to keep intruders out," she said, each word measured, deliberate. "They were built to keep them in."
A beat of silence.
Then, softer—almost as an afterthought:
"It was constructed by the Demon King, wasn't it? These runes… that corroded dagger..." Her gaze sharpened. "Just how are you connected to the Demon King?"
Percia felt Stark stiffen under her hand. Fern's gaze shifted to her—wary now, violet eyes sharp and searching.
The demons shifted in their chains. One raised its horned head slowly and locked eyes with Percia. It tilted its head—contemplating, almost curious—its posture loose.
She spoke quietly, without flourish or apology.
"He was once my ward. Back when he was still young. Before he gained that title."
Percia let her hand fall from Stark's face.
"I came across what remained of him back in the underground deposit," she continued. "He asked me to come here and kill what remains of his old army."
She turned to face them fully.
Stark had stepped back, eyes stony, jaw set. Fern's expression was carefully blank—the mask she wore when something felt too large to process at once.
"That's not the sort of thing you should keep from us," Stark whispered. Fern's jaw clenched.
And Frieren—
Percia's heart flinched when their gazes met.
Frieren's eyes were cold, unfeeling, almost glassy in their detachment. No warmth. No curiosity. No trace of the quiet fondness that had flickered when she spoke of old adventures or hugged Percia without preamble. Just the flat stare of someone who had outlived too many betrayals.
"I never hid my past from you, Frieren," she said softly. "I simply… didn't volunteer it."
Frieren didn't blink.
Percia held that gaze for a long moment.
She nodded toward the shadowed corridor behind them. "The demons waiting beneath the clouds—they likely want to study their primal ancestors. For what purpose, I'm not certain."
Her steady eyes returned to the chained figures. Claws flexed against iron. Wings rippled faintly beneath scales. Rasping breaths grew steadier.
"What I do know," she said, "is that the Demon King wishes these remnants destroyed. Even if we don't know why…I believe it is still in our favor to destroy them."
"You knew what this place was," Frieren spoke up. "About who was sending us here. And you still led us here."
Percia exhaled slowly. "I truly didn't expect this development." She glanced at the demons—already straining harder against failing chains. "I didn't know what to expect… but it wasn't this."
Stark's voice cracked the silence. "So what now? We just… kill them? All of them?"
They were watching them now—every one of them—eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
Hungry.
"If we leave them," Percia said quietly, "they'll break free eventually. The chains are already failing."
Frieren stepped forward one small pace, staff held loosely.
"Then we end it," she said simply.
─────────────────────────────────────────────────
The first chain snapped with a sound like breaking iron.
Sparks flew. A demon surged forward with a guttural roar.
Then the rest followed.
Chains shattered in a cascade. Wings unfurled. Scales scraped stone as ancient bodies erupted free, filling the chamber with sulfur and the reek of old blood.
Stark reacted on instinct. He twisted aside as claws smashed down where the group had stood. Stone exploded. He rolled, came up swinging—axe biting deep into scaled flesh. Black ichor sprayed. The demon recoiled; Stark was already moving again, dodging low through the chaos.
Fern lifted her staff. "Zoltraak."
Dark mana cracked through the air. One shot punched through a shoulder; another shattered a knee. The demon staggered—Stark's axe came down in the same breath, cleaving through its neck.
Above, Frieren rose weightless, mana trailing her staff. A winged demon launched itself from the sky, jaws wide, aiming for Stark's flank. Frieren intercepted without a word. A brilliant Zoltraak sliced the air—brighter and sharper than Fern's—shredding the demon's wing mid-beat. Before it could recover, thin silver chains of mana snapped around its limbs. It crashed helpless at Stark's feet. One brutal overhead swing finished it.
Percia moved last.
She slipped through the chaos like a shadow. Her eyes tracked every motion with cold precision.
A demon lunged too close to Stark.
Percia caught it by the throat.
It squealed—a high, wet sound—as her fingers tightened. Scales cracked under tightening fingers. Mana surged; she drove the creature downward, slamming it into marble hard enough to crater the floor.
The impact echoed. Black blood pooled beneath its shattered skull.
Stark faltered—his axe aimless for half a heartbeat. He had seen her heal wounds with delicate threads of light. He had felt her mana around him, protecting him from the storm just earlier that day.
He had never seen her crush a being's throat like it was dry parchment.
A gout of fire roared toward him from the side—another demon, jaws wide, flames coiling in its maw. Stark turned—too slow.
Percia lifted a hand.
A tiled barrier of defensive magic rose between them; fire splashed harmlessly across it and died into smoke. Stark stared at the fading shield, then at Percia. Gratitude flickered—then vanished behind a tight jaw. He looked away.
Fern fired again, driving another demon back, the same force making her stumble slightly. Percia appeared beside her in an instant, steadying her.
Too close.
Fern's shoulders tightened; she shot a quick side-glance at the taller elf. Percia's expression was calm, unreadable. She shifted her stance without speaking, staff subconciously angled at both the demons.
And at Percia.
Above, Frieren surveyed the battlefield with cold eyes. Her gaze flicked downward once, locking briefly on Percia. No warmth. No forgiveness. Only the same unchanging detachment she had worn for centuries —the one that gave her the title of Slayer.
Another demon lunged skyward. Frieren met it mid-air. Hellfire bloomed—Stark flinched at the sudden heat.
"Frieren seems...angry," Stark whispered.
No one answered.
The chamber rang with the sounds of combat—claws on stone, mana detonating, axes biting flesh, roars cut short.
Stark parried a claw swipe, grunted as the force jarred his arms. Fern covered him again—defensive magic flaring. From Percia, something whipped through the air. The demon's head rolled to the floor. Stark recognized it from before: Reelseiden.
Its body hit the floor with a wet thud, black ichor spreading in corrosive pools that hissed against the stone.
Then—silence.
─────────────────────────────────────────────────
Fern frowned as the bodies of the demons lingered on the stone floor. No dissolution. No fading into mist like the modern ones always did. Black ichor still bubbled and hissed, scales still gleamed dully under the dim light. She glanced at Percia.
"How come they're not disintegrating?" she asked.
Percia glanced at the corpses, expression unreadable. She knelt beside one, hand hovering just above the bubbling blood without touching it.
"Demons today are beings of mana," she said quietly. "Back then, demons were—. Corrupted by—"
Her words vanished beneath a low, staticky hum—the same interference that had crackled when the world resisted certain truths.
Frieren, Fern, and Stark stiffened. Percia didn't seem to notice. She remained kneeling, eyes distant.
Frieren tilted her head slightly. "What's wrong?"
Percia stayed silent a moment longer. Then, with a small gesture, a grimoire materialized in her hand—pale leather, shimmering sigils, radiating something purer and brighter than any ordinary spellbook.
Frieren's eyes narrowed as she observed it. The book didn't carry the faint ambient mana signature that every ordinary grimoire did. Instead it radiated something purer, brighter—immensely holy. Her eyes widened fractionally.
"You possess a holy scripture?" she asked. "And to that degree of power… have you been blessed by the Goddess?"
Percia's gaze lingered on the grimoire as it opened on its own accord, pages flipping with a soft, luminous rustle.
"I don't think so," she said. "This isn't exactly a holy scripture. It was a… gift of sort. From my mother."
Stark perked up despite himself. "The one from the painting?"
Percia sighed—soft, tired—as if the mere thought of the painting exhausted her. "Yes. The one from the painting."
The grimoire finally stilled. A single page tore free, scattering into glowing fragments like falling starlight. They settled over the demon remains.
The ichor hissed louder for a heartbeat—then began to evaporate. The scales dulled, crumbled to ash. The twisted limbs smoothed and vanished. Within moments, nothing remained but clean stone and the faint scent of ozone.
Fern flinched as the ruin itself groaned—walls creaking, ceiling shifting.
Frieren looked up at the trembling stone overhead. "We should leave. The ruin is kicking us out. It seems we've overstayed our welcome."
Percia hummed in agreement as the grimoire dismissed itself in a swirl of pale light. "Perfect timing, really. I believe the clouds are now over a human settlement—not too big. Perhaps an inn."
She glanced at the wall, thoughtful. "I can teleport us out."
She gestured for them to come closer.
Frieren stilled for a heartbeat—green eyes unreadable—then walked over without a word. Stark and Fern exchanged quick glances before stepping forward slowly.
The moment Percia made contact with them, the chamber vanished.
They were falling.
Wind roared. Stark screamed—full-throated, undignified—as he plummeted.
Frieren and Fern caught themselves with casual flight magic. Percia dove after Stark, snagged his collar mid-fall, and slowed their descent with effortless grace.
Below lay a quiet fork in the road. An unassuming inn sat beside it—lanterns already lit against the late afternoon sky, smoke curling lazily from the chimney.
Frieren blinked, reorienting herself as she floated downward. "That crossroad…" she mused out loud. She glanced right, then left. "Turn right and it heads to the northern plateau. Left and it heads to the neutral harbor. We're on track."
Fern wasn't looking at the road.
She stared upward, violet eyes wide.
The storm clouds were gone.
In fact, no clouds remained at all. The sky stretched clear and endless blue.
"The storm… it's completely cleared," she said softly, almost wondering.
Percia released Stark gently onto the grass beside the road. He landed in an ungainly heap, still breathing hard.
She looked up too, calm. "It seems the ruin has moved on." She tilted her head. "I wonder why it left so… urgently."
Frieren landed beside Stark, staff tapping once against the ground.
"You say you wonder," she said, green eyes boring into Percia, "yet it seems you already have an idea."
Fern floated down last, boots touching earth without sound. She glanced at Percia—still wary, still processing—then at the inn.
"We should rest," she said simply.
Percia nodded once.
"Agreed."
She started toward the inn without another word.
The others followed—Percia could feel them: their distrust, their wariness, and above all, cold aversion.
That one was solely from Frieren.