99 998
99 999
100 000
A number. A counter.
The Divine Relic of the God of Time and Space—The Chrono Trigger—was a paradox in itself. Its ability was, in principle, simple. Yet, in application, it was something far more harrowing than mere time manipulation.
100 001
A field. A space carved out from the rest of reality, enclosed within an unseen boundary of the Relic's design. Within it, the user dictated a singular, absolute truth:
A point in time. A fixed marker, an anchor tethered to existence itself. No matter how many times the world crumbled, no matter how many times blood spilled across the ruined ground, that one moment could be returned to.
Yet there was a cost. There was always a cost.
100 002
The user must define the cause that would trigger the reversal.
And in this battle, that cause was simple.
Death.
Their Deaths.
Every single time they perished—ripped apart, crushed, annihilated—the counter ticked forward, marking each failed attempt. A ledger of slaughter.
100 003
The world stood broken.
Molten rivers carved their way through what was once solid land, spewing plumes of searing heat into the charred sky.
And amidst it all, Dante stood.
Leisurely.
The faceplate of his helm concealed his expression, yet his posture alone radiated confidence in his prowess. His arms were folded, the alloy of his gauntlets reflecting the crimson glow of lava. The fur of his helmet swayed gently in the updrafts of heat.
Before him, his adversaries stood in contrast.
Beatrice and Ezerald—exhausted, their breaths unsteady, their bodies worn despite no injuries.
Aithne—exasperated, though not the least bit exhausted.
Aurélie—impassive as ever, yet the scythe in her grasp seemed to loosen in her grip, her fingers no longer holding it with the certainty they once did.
And then there was Aegraxes.
Smiling.
A smile that did not falter despite the growing despair. It was as if he were observing something amusing.
Dante's voice cut through the silence.
"Tell me..."
There was no mocking lilt to his words. No arrogance, no cruelty.
Simply curiosity.
He shifted his gaze between them, his presence looming despite his relaxed posture.
"How many times have you all died?"
A ripple.
A stiffening of shoulders. A flicker of confusion.
Beatrice and Ezerald reacted instinctively, their bodies tensing before they could suppress it. How? How could he possibly know?
Dante gave them no time to compose themselves.
"That Divine Relic—Chrono Trigger." His tone remained measured, indifferent, as if discussing a mere trinket rather than the instrument that had prolonged this battle beyond its natural end. "It encases an area, manipulates time within its bounds at the user's behest. How many strategies have you attempted? How many adjustments? You must have realized that stopping time would be useless. But reversing it?"
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering their approach.
"You thought you could learn. Adapt. Improve."
Silence.
No one refuted him.
Because he was right.
Aegraxes remained unreadable, his expression unchanging. But the others—each one of them was aware of how many loops had occurred.
How many times they had been torn apart.
How many times his fist had pierced their flesh.
How many times they had been crushed, burned, broken, erased—each execution more ruthless than the last.
And most terrifying of all—
Dante had adapted as well.
Every single loop, he had learned.
Every single strategy, he had countered.
Every single Death, he had made even more efficient.
This was not a battle of brute strength alone.
It was intellect.
It was adaptability.
Dante was not merely powerful. He was a monster of skill and instinct, an entity that grew stronger with every attempt they made.
Even against two Ancestors and three full-fledged Fate Walkers, he stood untouchable.
Aegraxes exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a chuckle barely audible.
"Over a hundred thousand attempts, and we have yet to land a single lasting wound."
He sounded almost amused.
Aithne sighed, shaking his head.
"This is getting tedious." His voice carried a lilt of resignation. "My goals will have to wait, it seems. There's no winning here."
Aurélie clicked her tongue softly. With a gesture of her hand, her massive scythe dissipated into blackened wisps, carried away by the winds.
"Utterly pointless." Her voice was tinged with irritation rather than fear. "I care not for dying, but this? This serves no purpose."
Dante remained silent.
Aurélie's eyes narrowed slightly, her bi-colored hair stirring in the wind. "I tire of wasting my time trying," she stated. "I have already said my piece, yet you remain against me."
It was a mere observation,
Aithne, standing beside her, tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes flickering with something unreadable. "You seem quite vexed because of that."
Aurélie's gaze cut to him sharply. "Quiet."
Even now, in the face of opposition, her tone remained tempered. She did not waste her breath on anger. It was unnecessary. A mere expenditure of energy that would yield nothing in return.
"I am done here," she continued, her voice steady. "Facing an opponent overwhelmingly stronger serves no purpose."
Aithne exhaled, a slow, knowing sound, before offering a small, almost irreverent smile. "You've the right of it." A pause, then a slight tilt of his head. "Take me with you, yeah?"
A beat passed.
And then—
The air cracked.
Reality itself seemed to ripple, as if existence had drawn a sharp breath. The desolate world shuddered in protest. And in the next blink, they were gone.
Vanished. Not teleported, not merely displaced— rejected from where they stood. The space where they had stood remained untouched, as if they had never existed there at all. Aurélie's Ultra Vires no doubt.
And just like that, they had abandoned the battlefield.
"Those bastards!" The sharp outcry split the heavy silence.
Beatrice clenched her fists at her sides. A tremor of frustration ran through her body, her knuckles white with the force of her grip.
"They dragged me into fighting this monster, and they're the first to go!" she spat.
Ezerald stiffened at that, a shadow crossing her expression. Her breath hitched, though she masked it well, her lips pressing into a thin line. The absence of their allies carved a weight into her chest—a weight she did not like. Even with their combined strength, Dante had been an absurd force. And now, with only the three of them remaining, the grim reality of their situation pressed down like a crushing vice.
She could not help but feel it—the dread creeping up from the pit of her stomach, clawing at her ribs.
Aegraxes, however, stood apart, unreadable. His expression did not shift. His posture did not waver. There was no indication of concern or frustration—only an eerie stillness, as if he had expected this outcome all along.
And then—
The barrier cracked.
A single, hairline fracture splintered across the translucent dome surrounding them. The Chrono Trigger's shield, the very construct keeping the battlefield sealed, began to unravel.
The cracks deepened.
The sound—like glass breaking in slow motion.
Each fragment fell, dissolving before it could touch the ruined ground, fading into nonexistence.
But Dante did not move.
He did not react in the way a warrior should upon witnessing the failing of an enemy's weapon. Because he knew.
This was not an admission of defeat.
Aegraxes had not given up. Not yet.
Dante's mind worked in overdrive.
("Still, he did not wage this battle for no reason,") he mused, ("To trigger the calamities, he must first and foremost sacrifice the Divine Blade Nihil. He was most likely aiming to make use of alchemy—but even so, that would require an absurd amount of mana. An equivalent exchange for a blade capable of rupturing the realm itself… I see now.")
The realization struck like a hammer to the skull.
How had he not noticed it sooner?
His gaze snapped up, locking onto Aegraxes.
A small smile played on the Fate Walker's lips. "Figured it out, have you?"
Dante exhaled slowly.
"You're siphoning mana," he stated.
Aegraxes folded his arms across his chest. "Indeed. But knowing that now won't help you." He stepped forward. "The first calamity may as well already be underway," he continued. "There's nothing you can do to stop it. Granted, eventually—with the combined efforts of this era's people—this calamity will cease. But how long will you be able to hold out? There are seven, Dante. Seven calamities. Each designed to obliterate this realm, piece by piece."
Silence stretched between them.
Beatrice and Ezerald felt it.
A shift. A weight.
And Dante—
Did not respond.
Seconds ticked by.
Beatrice and Ezerald exchanged glances, a flicker of uncertainty passing between them. Had Aegraxes' words finally shaken him?
Suddenly—
"I wonder if the two beside you still believe your ultimate goal serves the interest of the Fate Walkers." Dante finally spoke.
Beatrice visibly bristled at his words, her red eyes flashing with frustration before she scoffed, arms crossing tightly over her chest in a manner that was less about defiance and more about fortifying herself against something she wasn't willing to acknowledge.
"This talk again?" She exhaled sharply through her nose. "We'll not listen to your mocking words. If you think you can shake our resolve with baseless rhetoric, then you underestimate us."
Dante tilted his head ever so slightly, as if dissecting her response, turning it over in his mind with an almost detached curiosity before shaking his head.
"Even if it's the truth?" His words weren't condescending, nor were they cruel—they were simply, undeniably, inescapably true. "You fight a battle you're not even sure you want a part in."
Beatrice flinched, a barely perceptible movement—a twitch of the fingers, a minuscule hitch in her breath—but Dante caught it.
"Can you stand there and truthfully say you wish for things to revert to the way they once were? To an era you barely even remember? You were a child, Beatrice."
Her jaw clenched, his words pressing into her like an iron vice. She hated the way he said her name—not with malice, not with ridicule, but with something even worse.
"Arne was the one you cared for most, wasn't he? Who else did you have but him?"
A sharp intake of breath—Beatrice's fingers twitched at her side, the grief, the unresolved pain, and the bitter taste of truth threatening to choke her.
"Shut up." It was quiet. And she hated that.
Dante, unfazed, turned his head toward Ezerald, his gaze settling on her with the same suffocating hidden scrutiny.
"And you," he said, voice unhurried, "have you any reason to fight?"
Ezerald stiffened. Tension rippled through her frame, her fingers flexing at her sides as if she needed to physically restrain herself from reacting. The very air around her betrayed the involuntary shift in her composure.
"What?" she blurted out—too quick, too sharp, as if she hadn't expected to be forced into this confrontation.
"You may as well be a shadow, Ezerald. A specter following Aegraxes' whims without ever once questioning why."
Ezerald's mouth opened, then closed. The silence stretched. Stretched too long.
She wanted to refute him, to cut through his words with defiance, with anger, with conviction— but what came instead was an unsettling, suffocating void.
Because she knew.
She knew he was right.
Dante shook his head, exhaling softly, but there was no satisfaction in his posture.
"Aegraxes does not seek to rebuild what was lost." He turned his gaze toward the Fate Walker leader, the weight of his gaze shifting like a landslide. "You tell yourself this is for Aethel's restoration, but we both know that's a lie. Isn't it, Aegraxes?"
Aegraxes, who had been unnervingly silent throughout all of this, finally moved.
His lips curled—not into a smile, not into a frown, but into something unsettlingly unreadable.
"Oh? Is that your conclusion?" His voice was light, almost amused, yet there was something razor-sharp beneath it.
Dante didn't falter.
"It's obvious." His tone cut through the air like a blade. "The calamities you aim to unleash will ruin the realms beyond repair. And you might spout niceties about bringing back your fallen brethren, but it is impossible. You know it. I know it. The Ruler of Death has laid claim to every single soul lost in the Great War."
A silence thick enough to drown in settled between them.
Dante's voice did not waver.
"None can defy Death. Not the Gods. Not the dragons. And certainly not you."
Beatrice's fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white. A thousand thoughts screamed inside her head—Arne, Arne, Arne—but she couldn't bring herself to say anything. Because if Dante was right, if he was even half right—
Ezerald, too, was frozen, her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to speak, to deny, to argue, to fight back— but nothing came.
And Aegraxes?
Aegraxes smiled.
Or at least, he tried to.
But it was stiff. Hollow. The first sign of a crack.
And then—suddenly—his expression shifted. His head snapped to the side, his eyes locking onto something.
A pause
And for the first time—
Aegraxes expression broke into shock as he looked at something incomprehensible.
And the others followed his gaze.
And they saw it too.
Something that should not have existed.