[???]
She's always enjoyed battle—not for the bloodshed, nor for the thrill of dominance, but for the sheer, unshackled freedom it grants her. In battle, there is no pretense, no expectation, no need for words. Just instinct, movement, and the intoxicating clarity of the moment. The clash of steel sings to her, the pulse of magic hums beneath her skin, and in the chaos, she finds a strange kind of peace.
Here, she does not have to be anything but herself—no past, no future, only the present. No burdens, no responsibilities, just the raw, visceral truth of combat. The rhythm of war, the dance of death, the perfect harmony of destruction and survival. It is in these moments that she feels most alive, when her thoughts fade, and only the primal rush of battle remains.
And yet—even so, she found this absurd.
Lyraeth exhaled sharply, her golden-yellow eyes narrowing as she tightly gripped her colossal blade, her fingers pressing into its hilt as if trying to ground herself in reality. The once-pristine battlefield was now a wasteland—charred earth, shattered mountains, and lingering embers from her own flames. The air itself shimmered with residual heat, a scorching golden glow still dancing along the edges of her form.
But even with all this destruction, he still stood.
That soothing yet mocking voice rang out through the devastated ruins, carrying an air of unbearable arrogance.
"Is this the best you all can do, really?"
Mikoto's tone was drenched in disdain, that lazy, almost bored cadence sending a wave of irritation down their spine. His voice did not belong to someone facing three Inheritors, nor to someone who had endured a relentless onslaught of devastation.
It belonged to a monster, mocking the futile struggles of humans.
His form, once marred by combat, was now pristine once more. The blackened armor—adorned with streaks of malevolent red—had restored itself to its perfect, polished state, not a single crack or dent remaining. Even the exposed part of his face was once more hidden beneath that emotionless, infernal helmet.
He barely held his sword properly, the weight of it resting lazily in his grip, as if the very concept of taking a proper stance was beneath him.
("Seriously? We've been throwing our strongest attacks at him, and that's all he has to say?") A soft chuckle escaped Lyraeth's lips, but it held no amusement—only the sharp edge of disbelief. This truly was a monster in human skin.
Even now, she could feel it—the suffocating weight of his presence, the sheer force of his existence pressing against her very soul. There was no doubt in her mind that he was holding back, allowing them to continue their pathetic resistance for nothing more than his own amusement.
Even in their Arcane Ascendance forms, she could see the exhaustion setting in. She could not see Reynard's expression beneath his eerie blue helm, nor could she see beneath Vulcan's veiled face, but she did not need to.
She could sense it.
The heaviness in their stances, the barely perceptible shake in their movements, the way their breaths had turned just a fraction heavier—they were growing tired.
("And yet, he's still barely trying.")
Her mind flickered to her last attack—the one strike that had managed to pierce through his armor. The flames had seared through the plated alloy, her divine heat devouring it from the inside. A fire charm meant to continue burning away at him, feeding on his very essence until it reduced him to nothing.
Yet now?
Gone.
Completely erased, as if it had never existed in the first place. Mikoto had not even reacted to its effects. He had simply overwritten it, as if undoing a mistake in reality itself.
("Why is he holding back so much?")
Before she could dwell on the thought, a voice cut through her mind, dragging her back to the present.
"I think it's time for the plan now, no?" Vulcan's voice was composed, but there was an underlying urgency beneath it, a silent plea for action before it was too late.
"Will it even work?" Reynard muttered, his grip tightening around his spear, his stance now unsteady.
Vulcan did not hesitate. "We don't have any other options."
His words left no room for argument.
Mikoto immediately picked up on the shift in their resolve. He let out a tired sigh, shaking his head as if disappointed.
"Plan all you want, punks," he scoffed, his voice oozing with confidence. "Do you honestly think it'll make a diffe—tch."
He suddenly cut himself off.
The sound was almost imperceptible, but it did not go unnoticed.
For the first time since this battle had begun, Mikoto faltered.
Then—they saw it.
A single, crimson drop, trailing down the chin of his helmet.
Silence.
Vulcan's breath hitched. ("He's...bleeding?")
Mikoto lifted a gauntleted hand to his head, gripping it tightly. The motion was small, but it spoke volumes. He staggered slightly, barely perceptible, but it was there. His head shook, as if trying to force something out, as if fighting against an unseen pressure.
Something was wrong.
Even if it was only for a moment, he had lost control—whether it was over his body, his mind, or something else entirely, they didn't know.
But it was something.
Reynard felt it—a spark of hope. A mere ember buried beneath the crushing weight of despair, but hope nonetheless.
Maybe he wasn't invincible. Maybe they could win.
Mikoto cursed suddenly, the sheer venom in his voice snapping them out of their thoughts.
"Fucking Octavia." The name left his lips like a vile slur, filled with an undeniable bitterness. "Making me go through these fucking loopholes for the Chthonia," he muttered under his breath, his frustration almost tangible.
He shook his head once more, as if trying to force something away, but it lingered.
Vulcan's eyes narrowed beneath his veil. ("Loopholes? The Chthonia?")
It was cryptic, but one thing was clear—something was taking a toll on him.
And they needed to exploit it.
Vulcan spoke first, his voice even. "Seems you're more sluggish."
Mikoto's head snapped up.
And though his expression was hidden behind the helmet, the sheer force of his attention slammed into them like a physical weight.
The atmosphere grew heavier.
"And what about it?" His tone was dangerous now, low and guttural. Vulcan did not flinch. "Do you think it gives you an advantage?"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then—Mikoto scoffed.
"Don't get cocky, you shitstain."
The air grew heavier.
"The only reason you fuckers are still breathing is because I'm showing some mercy."
The battlefield stood still, the very earth itself trembling beneath the weight of his words.
Lyraeth clenched her blade.
Vulcan spoke. "NOW!"
There was no hesitation.
Reynard stepped forward, his armored boots crushing the fractured ground beneath him. His presence was commanding, but what came next was beyond even him.
His gauntleted hand extended outward, fingers spreading wide, as he uttered something incomprehensible—a summoning unlike any other.
"Twin Leviathans!" He bellowed.
The sky split apart.
A deep, unnatural rumbling surged through the heavens, not like thunder, but something far worse. The air itself rippled and distorted, bending in ways that should not have been possible. Clouds churned violently, twisting into unnatural vortexes, as if something colossal was forcing its way through.
And then, from the center of that gaping abyss, they emerged.
They did not arrive—they descended, as if the heavens themselves were vomiting out these unholy monstrosities that should never have existed in the first place.
The First Leviathan slithered forth like a moving landmass.
Its form was serpentine, but to call it a mere serpent would have been an insult. It was a mountain given the ability to move. Its entire hide was a disgusting fusion of obsidian rock and something far darker, as if it were forged from the remnants of shattered worlds. Lava-like veins pulsed across its body, glowing dimly beneath its stone-like exterior, shifting and rearranging with every movement.
Its head was a thing of pure nightmare.
A gaping maw, lined with jagged teeth the size of fortresses, spiraled endlessly into its throat. Its jaw did not move normally—it unhinged, splitting apart in ways that defied anatomy.
And then it lunged.
A force so overwhelming that the very atmosphere caved in, sending out a tidal wave of devastation. The earth beneath its gaping mouth disintegrated, crumbling into nothing before it even made contact. Entire miles of terrain collapsed inward from the sheer pressure, as if the planet itself was recoiling in fear.
Yet—
Mikoto did not move.
He did not even flinch.
Instead, he simply lifted his blade.
And then—
The collision.
The moment Leviathan met steel, the world exploded.
A deafening detonation of force ruptured outward, reducing everything within its vicinity to rubble and dust. A newly formed canyon was ripped into the earth beneath them, stretching for miles—a permanent scar left by the sheer impossibility of Mikoto's defense.
Yet—
Mikoto did not yield.
His blade, compared to the immensity of the Leviathan, should have been insignificant—a mere needle against an unstoppable colossus.
But it wasn't.
Mikoto's arms trembled, not from strain, but from power. His fingers dug deeper into the hilt of his sword, and then—
He pushed back.
His muscles tensed, his red aura flaring, and in a single moment—
He threw the Leviathan's entire head aside.
The mountain-sized entity's jaw snapped sideways, sent careening off-course, its massive form tumbling uncontrollably into the battlefield. Its body collided into the land, shattering mountains, uprooting the earth, sending entire shockwaves of devastation in every direction.
Yet Mikoto was already moving.
Above him, the sky darkened.
The second Leviathan fell.
Unlike the first, this one was not solid. It was fluid—constantly shifting, a living embodiment of entropy. Its form was a gargantuan storm, an impossibly vast mass of churning liquid darkness, tendrils of shadowy abyss coiling in and out of existence.
It had no face.
Only a single, glowing eye, bottomless and vast, staring down upon him with a hunger that could never be sated.
And then it let out a sound.
A wail.
Not a roar, not a scream—a singular note of pure oblivion.
The air ruptured at the sound. The earth split apart. The battlefield itself caved inward, collapsing into a vortex of obliteration.
And then—
It fell.
A behemoth beyond reason, plummeting like a meteor, aiming to crush everything.
Mikoto moved.
Not teleportation. Not magic.
Speed.
Pure, unrestrained, ungodly speed.
The air around him detonated from sheer acceleration. His red aura flared violently, shifting into a chaotic storm of crimson lightning. His entire form became a blur, a zigzagging comet, shooting into the sky.
He struck.
Mikoto shot forward, his blade humming with raw, merciless power. He met the First Leviathan's coiling body midair, his speed warping the space around him, then—
He drove his sword straight into its hide.
His blade did not merely cut.
It pierced.
And then—
It dragged.
Mikoto's entire form flipped downward, his momentum carrying his blade through the entire Leviathan's torso—a single, perfect arc of devastation.
Flesh, stone, and bone all parted before his strike. The Leviathan howled, but the sound died in its throat, as its entire body split apart. A volcanic eruption of blackened blood shot skyward, consuming the entire battlefield in a rain of thick, boiling liquid.
The Leviathan collapsed—but before it could even hit the ground, Mikoto was already moving again.
Mikoto launched himself skyward, a streak of pure crimson obliteration. The Second Leviathan's massive, endless eye locked onto him, its titanic form twisting violently, tendrils of darkness lashing out to consume him.
But he was too fast.
He moved in a zigzagging pattern, each motion a perfect feint, dodging its attacks with absolute precision.
He reached its core.
He inverted his grip on his blade.
And then—
He drove it downward.
A single, decisive plunge—straight into its pulsating, glowing eye. The effect was instantaneous. The Second Leviathan imploded, its entire body collapsing into nothingness, its very existence denied from the world.
The sky was clear again.
And Mikoto—
Mikoto landed on the ruined ground alone, his blade still dripping with their ichor.
He turned his gaze toward Reynard and Lyraeth—
"Was that it?"
Apparently it was not.
A sudden, violent shift in the atmosphere.
The very air condensed, as though the world itself was bracing for impact.
A roar of wind blasted through the battlefield, scattering debris like dust, and within that instant—
They moved.
Two figures—two unstoppable blurs—charged toward Mikoto with inhuman speed.
Reynard.
Lyraeth.
They struck as one.
Reynard was the first to close the distance, his spear aimed straight for Mikoto's heart. His charge was like a comet, his momentum so powerful that entire formations behind him buckled from the sheer force of his acceleration.
His spear extended forward—a flash of blinding blue.
But before it could even touch him—
Mikoto twisted.
A single, razor-thin motion—an impossible evasion.
The spearhead grazed his ribs, but only for a fraction of a second—before Mikoto's body moved with an unnatural speed, a hair's breadth away from impalement.
Then came Lyraeth.
From his blind spot—a perfect ambush.
Her blade came from the left, swinging upward in a ruthless arc meant to bisect him from hip to shoulder.
But Mikoto anticipated it.
Before her sword could connect, he planted his foot hard against the crumbling earth, shifting his weight with such precision that his entire torso bent backward at an inhuman angle.
The sword whistled past his chest—missing by mere inches.
Then—
Counter.
Mikoto's left foot pushed off the ground, his body spinning midair, and in that same instant—
His blade snapped upward—
Aiming straight for Lyraeth's exposed flank.
She saw it coming.
And she reacted instantly.
Her own blade collided with his—
A cataclysmic explosion of force.
The sheer impact sent out a sonic boom, the battlefield cracking apart beneath their feet, a miles-wide crater forming instantly. The shockwave tore through the air, sending up a howling tempest of dust and rock.
But neither of them yielded.
Reynard was already back in motion.
His spear spun, tracing a arc through the sky, before he thrust forward again—
Aimed directly at Mikoto's head.
But—
Mikoto saw it.
At the very last instant, he tilted his head just slightly, the spearhead missing his face by a fraction of a second.
Then—
Mikoto retaliated.
His form blurred, his body disappearing from sight, and before Reynard could even register the movement—
Mikoto was behind him.
And his blade was already swinging.
A single, precise cut.
Aiming straight for Reynard's spine.
But—
CLANG!
Lyraeth intercepted.
Her sword clashed against his, stopping his attack just in time—
And another detonation of force erupted between them.
The world shook.
Entire sections of the battlefield were blown apart, the ground cracking and lifting into the air, boulders and debris suspended in the storm of kinetic energy.
None of them stopped.
None of them slowed.
They kept moving.
The next exchange was pure chaos.
Mikoto's blade flashed, each swing blurring into the next, each strike executed violently. But Reynard and Lyraeth matched him—blow for blow. They surrounded him, attacking from every possible angle.
Spear. Sword. Steel, visceral anger.
Mikoto danced through them.
Every attack—dodged.
Every strike—parried.
His movements were unnatural.
He ducked under a horizontal slash from Lyraeth—only to lean back just in time to avoid a devastating spear thrust from Reynard.
Then—counterattack.
Mikoto's blade whipped through the air, a single flash of crimson lightning aimed at Reynard's exposed chest—
But at the last moment, Reynard twisted, his spear shaft blocking the attack, sending out another earth-rending shockwave.
The force of it sent all three of them soaring backward—
Only for them to launch at each other once more. The terrain itself was shattered beyond recognition. Cracks spider-webbed across the land, fissures opening hundreds of feet deep.
The very sky warped, twisted by the absurd mana unleashed between the three combatants.
His blade was still humming with the lingering remnants of red lightning, its edge crackling with residual mana saturation. He could feel it—their mana. The pulsing desperation in their movements. The slight hitch in their speed.
Their time was almost up.
Reynard and Lyraeth were still in their Arcane Ascendance forms, but they were nearing their limits.
That's why they were pressing in closer.
That's why they had shifted to close-quarters combat—why they were trying to keep him locked in engagements, preventing him from overwhelming them through sheer attrition.
They were running out of time.
But—
Where was Vulcan?
The thought barely had time to register before—
FIRE.
A sudden, violent detonation of flames erupted behind him, spiraling upward in a monstrous pyre, swallowing the entire eastern battlefield in a blinding inferno.
Then—
"PHANTOM EMBER STRIKE!"
Lyraeth's voice boomed through the battlefield, resonating with an unnatural force, as the firestorm behind Mikoto twisted—solidified—morphed into something else entirely. From the depths of the flames, five identical figures emerged, their forms wreathed in flickering embers—
Five Lyraeths.
Perfect clones.
Each one wielding a flaming sword, their eyes burning with eerie, inhuman intensity. The very air warped around them, their presence distorting the battlefield itself as their flames twisted and spiraled in unnatural patterns.
They did not hesitate.
They attacked.
All five clones, the real Lyraeth, and Reynard—all at once.
Mikoto barely blinked.
They came from every direction.
One swooped low, her blade carving a devastating horizontal arc meant to sever his legs at the knees.
Another descended from above, her flaming sword whistling downward in a meteor-like plunge, aiming to split his skull.
Two more flanked him from the sides, their swords stabbing forward, aiming for his ribs—a pincer maneuver, a coordinated effort to lock him in a kill-zone.
And Reynard—
Reynard moved with impossible speed, his spear spinning in a whirlwind, thrusting forward. The real Lyraeth following suit, her blade trailing behind her in a burst of flame.
But—
Mikoto moved faster.
A blur—an instantaneous shift in motion.
His body snapped into action, his movements so precise they bordered on premonition.
The first clone's horizontal slash?
He lifted his leg—let the blade pass harmlessly beneath him, then kicked off her head mid-air, using her skull as a springboard. The impact snapped her neck instantly, her body detonating into a column of flames as he launched himself upward.
The second clone's overhead strike?
He twisted midair, barely shifting his shoulder—the fiery blade missing him by a hair's breadth—then he brought his own blade upward, slashing through her torso in a single seamless movement. She barely had time to scream before her body split apart, her halves engulfed in flame, disappearing into burning embers.
The twin stabs from the sides?
Mikoto's red lightning surged, his body accelerating into blurred speed.
A flicker—a feint—then a counter.
He stepped inward, past their blades before they could retract—
Then—
A single, lightning-fast decapitating slash.
Their heads flew, spinning midair, their severed bodies turning into cascading fire, their forms collapsing into nothingness.
Four down.
The fifth clone barely had time to react before Mikoto was already in front of her—his blade flashing in an arc too fast to follow.
Her body split in two—right down the middle.
A merciless, perfect cut.
She didn't even have time to register her own death before her form burst into a violent inferno, her halves swallowed by the flames consuming her existence.
All of this—
All five kills—
Happened in an instant.
Less than a heartbeat.
But there was no time to revel in it.
Because Reynard attacked.
And his spear was already inches from Mikoto's throat.
Mikoto reacted on pure instinct.
A sharp exhale.
A snap decision.
His blade rose at the last possible second, intercepting the spearhead in a blinding clash of steel and mana.
A detonation of force—
The world imploded.
The sheer impact of their clash ripped the battlefield apart, sending out a devastating shockwave that reduced everything around them to nothing but dust. The ground beneath them ceased to exist—entire chunks of land flung into the air, hovering in the storm of destruction. The air howled as if in agony, the pressure intense.
He was done playing with them.
And they knew it.
Because despite their coordinated attacks—despite their desperate push to end him before their Arcane Ascendance faded—
They hadn't even touched him.
But then—
Lyraeth and Reynard moved.
In perfect synchronicity.
Without a word, without a signal, without hesitation—
They suddenly leaped back.
A sharp retreat, executed with such unnatural precision that it could only mean one thing.
Something else was coming.
Mikoto's eyes flicked to their retreating forms, red irises narrowing—but that half-second glance was his mistake.
Because above him—
Vulcan loomed.
Floating high in the gray-tinted sky, wreathed in the remains of flickering embers and distorted heatwaves, his gauntleted hands glowed with an ethereal luminance, his presence almost divine in its brilliance.
And yet, despite the sheer brightness of his aura—
Mikoto had not noticed him.
Not once.
Vulcan's eyes, hidden beneath his veil, bore down upon the battlefield. His thoughts were a rapid, precise flow—a strategist's mind racing at inhuman speeds.
Everything had led up to this moment.
Everything had been carefully designed.
The Leviathans?
Mere distractions.
The chaotic destruction they left behind?
Intentional.
The mana residue that their corpses seeped into the battlefield?
It had not merely been left behind—it had been placed.
Layer upon layer upon layer of mana had been woven into the air, a deliberate interference that polluted the natural flow of mana. It was a screen, a smokescreen that wasn't just physical, but spiritual—clouding senses, dulling perceptions, warping presences.
Mikoto had been forced to cut through too much, dodge too much, react to too much.
His ability to sense threats had been compromised.
And then there were Lyraeth's clones.
The constant blazing movement, the unnatural heat and density of their presence, all acting as beacons of interference. Mikoto had been forced to track them, his subconscious prioritizing them as immediate threats.
And in doing so—
He had lost sight of the real danger.
Vulcan was never here.
He was never within reach, never within striking distance.
He was above.
Watching.
Waiting.
And now—
Now he would strike.
Vulcan exhaled.
His hand lifted, fingers cupping the very fabric of the heavens themselves—and within his palm, an orb of pure, incomprehensible light materialized.
It was not mere magic.
It was not an energy blast.
It was something else entirely.
A concept, a force, an absolute phenomenon given form.
His fingers tightened around it. The world dimmed, the air quivered, and the battlefield fell into a moment of unnatural silence.
Then—
He unleashed it.
"STELLAR CATACLYSM!"
The name rang out like a divine decree.
And then—
A beam of pure annihilation erupted from his hand, not simply traveling through space—it became space, consuming all distance between them in an instant.
There was no warning.
There was no time.
There was no reaction.
Because it moved faster than light.
If Mikoto had been aware of it, he could have dodged.
If he had seen even a fraction of a second before its release, he could have countered.
But he did not see it.
And so—
He was engulfed.
The moment the light made contact with him—
The world itself ruptured.
A detonation unlike anything that had come before—a pillar of light so vast, so encompassing, so completely all-consuming that it dwarfed the very battlefield itself.
The ground ceased to exist.
Mountains in the distance split apart.
Entire fragments of the ground were sent hurtling into the sky, their very foundations obliterated by the sheer magnitude of the explosion.
And it did not stop.
It kept going.
Kept expanding.
Kept devouring.
The sky cracked open, a yawning void forming above where the atmosphere itself could not withstand the force of what had been unleashed. The ground—miles and miles away—was split apart, an entire area parting as the sheer impact of the blast rippled across the entire world.
It was not a mere explosion.
It was a phenomenon.
A singular, world-changing event.
From the outer edges of the explosion, far enough to barely escape the direct impact, Lyraeth and Reynard watched—bracing themselves against the apocalyptic force before them.
Lyraeth's hands were already moving, as a barrier of pure mana formed between them and the blast.
She gritted her teeth, pouring everything into the shield, merely enduring the shockwave was almost an impossibility.
Because this was not normal magic.
This was Vulcan's true strength.
And even defending against the aftershock was enough to make her arms tremble from exertion.
Beside her, Reynard stood with a tightened grip on his spear, eyes locked on the epicenter of the explosion, his thoughts unreadable.
Neither of them spoke.
Because there was nothing to say.
They had planned this moment perfectly.
They had executed it flawlessly.
And now—
Mikoto's fate was unknown.
The dust, the debris, the endless swirling chaos of the aftermath clouded the results. And the aftermath of Vulcan's Stellar Cataclysm had rewritten the very land itself.
Where once there had been a destruction-torn battlefield, there was now only absence.
Absence of terrain.
Absence of structure.
Absence of sound.
The earth had been reduced to an unrecognizable wasteland—a crater so massive, so profoundly deep that the shattered remnants of the world seemed to spiral endlessly downward into nothingness.
The sheer radiance of the explosion had burned shadows into the ground, scorching black silhouettes where objects had once stood, only to be obliterated in an instant.
And at the very center of it all—
A thick, impenetrable wall of dust and ash loomed, swirling and shifting in slow, eerie waves, a tomb of smoke and ruin.
Vulcan descended.
His form, still wreathed in the flickering embers of the devastation he had unleashed, moved with an unnatural stillness, as if the weight of what he had done hadn't quite settled upon him yet.
His feet touched down lightly beside Reynard and Lyraeth, both of whom stood at the very edge of the blast radius, the latters face locked in the same grim expression—
A mixture of disbelief, tension, and the faintest trace of unease.
No words were exchanged.
Not at first.
Because the sheer magnitude of the destruction before them was nearly incomprehensible.
And because—
Even now, despite everything—
Mikoto had not been confirmed dead.
Reynard exhaled sharply, gripping his spear tighter. His body still thrummed with adrenaline, his Arcane Ascendance form crackling faintly with unstable mana, but he forced himself to push aside his exhaustion.
His eyes remained fixed on the smothering fog of dust before them, the dense wall of obscurity that still refused to clear.
A bead of sweat trailed down his temple.
"…Did that get him?" His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—something uncertain.
Lyraeth, standing beside him, said nothing.
Her sword hand was clenched tightly, her posture rigid, yet her breathing was measured.
Even she wasn't sure.
Which left only one person to answer.
Vulcan.
The armored figure exhaled, his massive gauntlets flexing before folding behind his back.
Then—
A single, confident statement.
"No one could have survived that."
Reynard flicked his eyes toward him, skeptical. "…You sound awfully sure of yourself."
Vulcan tilted his head slightly, as if almost amused.
"Because I know what I used."
And then, as if to drive the point home, he elaborated. Vulcan slowly raised one of his hands, fingers curling slightly as the lingering light of the technique flickered across his palm.
"Stellar Cataclysm," he began, his voice carrying a quiet, unwavering certainty, "is not simply a technique of destruction." He turned slightly, his burning gaze fixing on Reynard and Lyraeth. "It is an erasure."
The air around him still shimmered faintly with the remnants of the attack, the very mana in the area feeling thinned, stretched—almost wrong.
Reynard frowned. "What do you mean?"
Vulcan's eyes flicked back toward the lingering cloud of dust.
"It is not merely an energy-based explosion, nor is it raw mana given form. It is a phenomenon—a convergence of celestial force condensed into a single point, then unleashed in a wave that consumes all matter, all energy, all existence in its path."
His voice did not waver.
"The very moment that attack touched him, Mikoto Yukio was subjected to forces that should have left nothing of him behind. His body should have been—"
The dust shifted.
A ripple.
At first, it was small, almost unnoticeable.
The thick haze of smoke and debris stirred, a faint disturbance among the ruinous silence.
Then—
It parted.
Not naturally.
Not by wind.
But by force.
Something within the dust had moved.
Something still stood.
And then—
They saw him.
Mikoto stood.
The first thing they saw—
Was his face.
And it was beautiful.
Not in the way a man should be beautiful. Not in the way a warrior should be beautiful.
But in the way that something inhuman was beautiful.
His scarlet eyes, now fully visible, carried a quiet, eerie coldness—an unnatural, doe-like softness that contrasted with the sheer emptiness of his expression. Dark lashes framed his gaze, unnaturally thick and long. Beneath his cruelly red irises, faint shadows lingered, softening the harshness of his features and making them seem almost ethereal. His skin, porcelain-pale, bore a pallor of unnatural perfection, so flawless it looked crafted rather than born. A beauty mark, dark and delicate, rested beneath his rosy lips.
His hair, now completely free from the confines of his helmet, spilled down in untamed, shoulder-length waves—a wild, silken white, the strands catching the dim, flickering remnants of light.
And yet—
There was something wrong.
Something deeply, profoundly wrong.
Because Mikoto—
Looked like a spawn of Octavia.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
And for the first time—
Reynard, Lyraeth, and Vulcan felt something they had not yet felt in this battle.
Pure terror.
They could not speak.
They could not react.
For several long seconds, they simply stared.
Then—
"…What in the hell," Reynard muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on his spear. "That's—he looks like—"
Lyraeth's lips parted slightly, her normally sharp demeanor momentarily slipping into something closer to pure disbelief. "...He looks like a spawn of Octavia."
Vulcan simply stood in appalled silence.
Mikoto said nothing.
His gaze, eerily blank, locked onto them—
His armor, once pristine, was shattered and ruined, his right gauntlet and sleeve missing entirely, revealing an exposed, dainty pale arm.
But aside from that—
He was whole.
He was alive.
And as he stared at them, unblinking, emotionless, his red eyes gleaming faintly beneath the smoldering remnants of the battlefield—
They questioned if they had ever stood a chance.
The stillness that had hung in the air, fragile as glass, shattered without warning.
There was no sound to warn them, no subtle distortion in the air. No telegraphed movement. Just an invisible force crashing down like a tidal wave, and the battlefield splintered into chaos once more.
Vulcan, who had been standing tall with his back straight and his hand still raised, as if preparing for something unknown, was struck with the force of an entire planet collapsing.
The impact was silent, yet deafening.
In the span of a heartbeat, his frame was thrown backwards, hurtling through the air with terrifying speed. The light around him flickered and cracked as he was torn out of his Arcane Ascendance form with brutal force, his own mana ripped from him as though his power had been forcefully severed from his very soul.
The ground beneath him shattered as he slammed into it, carving a deep trench with his body before finally coming to a crumpled stop—motionless.
The pressure in the air was staggering—this wasn't an attack; this was a crushing weight, an impossibility that struck without warning and unleashed a tidal wave of destruction in its wake.
Behind Vulcan, Lyraeth wasn't spared from the onslaught.
She had been steady, calculated, her grip on her weapon firm—until that invisible force tore through her own defenses like they were paper.
Her body, once held in the midst of intense power, jerked violently forward, her back arching as if she had been struck by an entire continent. Her breath was ripped from her chest and she was thrown violently, crashing into the ruins of the battlefield with such force that the very earth beneath her groaned in protest.
She skidded across the dirt and rubble, her limbs flailing helplessly until she finally came to an agonizing halt against a jagged rock, her body bent unnaturally.
The force had been so absolute, so sudden, that even her Arcane Ascendance could not stave off its brutality. She lay there, gasping for breath, unable to form a coherent thought. Her chest heaved with each painful intake of air. She had not been simply attacked—she had been stripped of everything.
The battlefield had gone silent.
Then—
A voice.
A voice that rang out like the chime of an inescapable judgment.
"The contestants are unable to fight. Therefore, they are eliminated."
There was no room for argument, no challenge to be made. The words seemed to vibrate with the weight of finality, and in the instant they echoed across the destroyed land, a brilliant white glyph appeared beneath both Vulcan and Lyraeth.
The glyph was radiant, blinding, and it pulsed with an authority far beyond any mortal presence.
The glyph expanded, shining brighter until it became a perfect circle of pure light, and then—
In the next heartbeat—they were gone.
The destruction left in the wake of their abrupt departure remained. The twisted wreckage, the lingering clouds of dust and ash, the scattered remnants of mana—everything was in its place, yet everything felt hollow.
All the while, Mikoto remained standing amidst the ruin.
Unscathed.
The dust began to settle, the winds picking up once more, and in the stillness, Mikoto's form was the only one that remained whole.
His armor—the tattered remnants of it—began to shift and rebuild before his eyes.
Cracks closed.
Armor plates realigned.
Fissures sealed themselves.
His form was gradually repaired, as though the very world around him had bent to his will, obeying his unspoken command. The jagged edges of his armor reshaped themselves, the gaps slowly filling as though nothing had happened at all.
Yet, amidst this perfect restoration, there was a small, significant difference.
The helmet, once an integral part of his appearance, remained absent.
And in its place was Mikoto's face—fully exposed, now visible to the eyes of those who had not yet grasped the sheer depth of him.
A smile slowly curled across his rosy lips, delicate and teasing.
It was not a smile of victory, but one of comfort—one that mocked the very idea that anything could still challenge him.
His eyes, gleaming with an unsettling softness, scanned the battlefield, and then—
He looked directly at Reynard.
Reynard, who stood frozen, staring, the full weight of everything settling on him.
Mikoto's beauty, that unholy, perfect beauty, was now undeniably clear.
His eyes, doe-like and crimson, captured Reynard's attention with an unnatural intensity, leaving him struggling for breath, unable to look away.
And there, in that instant—
Reynard's thoughts twisted.
Despite everything.
Despite the destruction, the crushing weight of everything that had happened—
Reynard's heart was inexplicably captivated.
Mikoto had transcended mere beaty.
And Reynard could not look away.
His eyes—those deep, startling red eyes—shone with something dangerous. Something indescribable.
For the briefest of moments, Reynard was left with the terrible realization that Mikoto was no longer a mortal—he was something else entirely.
Something greater.
And then, the emptiness of that realization came crashing down.
Because Mikoto's smile—it wasn't a conqueror's grin. It wasn't a grin that promised chaos or destruction.
It was a lonely smile.
A lonely smile because—
Mikoto was alone.
For a brief second, Reynard understood.
("I-is there anyone left? Someone who could compete with this monster!?")
To fight a monster, you needed another monster.
But—
Mikoto was alone.