Rose stood frozen, staring in disbelief as Ottar—the so-called strongest in Orario—was utterly dismantled, again and again.
It wasn't even close.
Ulquiorra. Stark. Harribel. Nel. Scathach. Artoria. Serenity.
One by one, they stepped into the ring, each testing their skills against Orario's top warrior. And each time, Ottar fell.
It wasn't because he was weak—far from it. His strikes were powerful, precise. His instincts, honed through years of battle, allowed him to push even the strongest adventurers to their limits.
But against them?
He was completely outmatched.
Scathach toyed with him, effortlessly dodging his attacks, correcting his form mid-fight with condescending remarks before knocking him to the ground with a single, precise strike.
Artoria overwhelmed him with sheer, unrelenting power. Her Excalibur-enhanced blows forced him onto the defensive before she disarmed him with nothing more than a flick of her wrist.
Stark seemed to be playing, hands in her pockets as she casually sidestepped each of Ottar's attacks. Then, with a single Cero, she nearly obliterated the floor beneath him.
Harribel and Nel worked together, tearing through Ottar's defenses with ruthless efficiency, their synchronized movements leaving no openings for a counterattack.
And then there was Ulquiorra.
The moment she entered the ring, the atmosphere shifted.
No wasted movements. No unnecessary strikes. Just cold, clinical efficiency.
Ottar lunged.
Ulquiorra vanished.
Before he could even process what had happened, something cold pressed against his throat.
He froze.
A single, thin finger rested against his jugular.
Ulquiorra's emerald eyes, void of emotion, stared directly into his soul.
"You are strong," she murmured, her voice quiet yet absolute. "But strength alone is not enough."
The fight was over.
Rose swallowed hard, her emotions a tangled mess.
Because this meant Ryan's group was now the strongest in Orario.
Even without him.
The realization sent a chill through her.
---
Freya sat back, legs crossed, fingers tapping against her armrest.
She had never seen so many talented, powerful individuals gathered in one place before. Each radiated a unique brilliance, their souls burning with intensity—but strangely, she felt no desire to claim them.
Because she had already found her true obsession.
Ryan.
His soul outshined them all.
And yet, in that moment, jealousy burned hot in her veins.
Because Medea—the smug, smirking witch—was perched comfortably on Ryan's lap, feeding him fruit like some pampered prince.
She delicately plucked a grape from the vine, holding it between two fingers before slowly pressing it to Ryan's lips.
"Say 'ahh,' darling," Medea purred.
Ryan raised an eyebrow but complied, letting her press the grape into his mouth.
Her fingers lingered, brushing lightly against his lips before retreating.
Then, violet eyes flicked toward Freya, dancing with mischief.
Freya's fingers tightened into fists.
Medea knew exactly what she was doing.
She leaned in, resting her soft body against Ryan's, her breath teasing his ear as she pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his neck.
"Mmm… you taste sweet," she murmured, voice low enough for only him and Freya to hear.
Freya's eye twitched.
Ryan chuckled.
Scathach wasn't impressed.
The Warrior Queen, standing nearby, merely rolled her eyes, arms crossed over her chest.
"Foolish," she muttered. "A true warrior does not waste time playing with her food."
Medea smirked, running a teasing finger down Ryan's chest just to spite Freya.
"Who says I'm playing?" she whispered.
Freya's aura flared, silver eyes glowing with divine energy.
The goddess of beauty did not handle competition well.
But Medea?
She thrived in it.
---
Ottar, still recovering from his losses, finally spoke.
"You have… powerful allies," he admitted to Ryan, his tone full of genuine respect.
Ryan, lounging comfortably beneath Medea, simply grinned.
"I do," he said. "And we're just getting started."
Freya's eyes narrowed.
She wasn't about to let this smug witch win.
This was war.
And Freya never lost.
---
Freya had met them all—the warriors, the mages, the researchers. All of them powerful, unique, beautiful in their own way. Ryan could start his own familia if he wanted.
She had also seen wonders beyond her imagination—magical artifacts, foods she had never tasted, fabrics more exquisite than anything she had ever worn. Everywhere she looked, something new caught her interest.
She left Ryan's manor with a magic trunk brimming with gifts—Butterbeer, Fire Whiskey, Acromantula silk clothing, enchanted jewelry, a mirror that allowed her to speak with Ryan directly, and even a collection of pictures that Yue had secretly slipped inside.
She would cherish them.
And later that night… she would use them.
---
Ottar, for his part, was content.
He had been bitter at first, forced to waste an elixir to heal his shattered chest, losing his prized sword in the process. Allan had mocked him for it—until Ryan silenced him with a broken jaw, shattered teeth, and a fractured skull, planting the fool into Freya's ceiling before casually taking his spear as a trophy.
Ottar had gained far more than he lost.
Scathach had offered him guidance, sharpening his skills with ruthless precision. And as a token of their "hospitality," he had received a set of dragon-hide gloves, boots, and a belt—each incredibly sturdy, resistant to magic and damage, yet comfortable beyond anything he had worn before.
---
The one struggling the most, however, was Rose.
She hadn't been left out, of course. Despite her protests, she had been given gifts—magical snacks and candies she had never heard of, enchanted drinks, a small purse with expanded space inside, and an enchanted quill that never ran out of ink and could write on its own.
That one, she couldn't refuse.
Do you know how much paperwork she did every day?
Her poor wrists.
But what weighed on her most wasn't the gifts.
It was what to tell the Guild.
After a long moment of consideration, she made her decision.
She was going to ignore it.
Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe this was all some elaborate dream.
Right now, none of that mattered.
Right now, she was going to go home, take a long, hot bath, and finally try that Fire Whiskey.
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