[Space]
Lucinda would have liked to focus all her attention on the opponent floating before her, but that seemed to have to wait.
A shudder.
At first, it was subtle—a faint, almost imperceptible disturbance rippling through space.
Then—the silence shattered.
The universe began to quake.
It was as if reality was convulsing.
The fabric of existence writhed and screamed, twisting and contorting, as if it could no longer endure the forces clashing within its bounds.
Distant stars trembled, their light flickering erratically—some flaring into blinding novas, others darkening into lifeless husks.
Planets groaned under invisible pressure, nebulas twisted into spirals, their vibrant colors bleeding into one another. Black holes screeched—yes, screeched—as their event horizons quivered, their hunger warring against the force that sought to unmake even them.
Cracks formed.
Not in space. Not in time.
But in something deeper.
Something fundamental.
And amidst it all, Rhiannon seemed unbothered.
"Is someone trying to destroy the realm so soon?"
The words left her lips, laced with amusement, not even the faintest hint of concern. She did not tense, did not flinch, did not even so much as tilt her head in curiosity. Her massive blade was slung effortlessly over her shoulder.
Her stance was casual, as if she were merely standing in the breeze of a gentle spring morning, rather than in a cosmic calamity.
Lucinda, however, was far from calm.
She could feel it—the unnatural, nightmarish tremor crawling through her bones, through her very being. The sensation was beyond mere unease; it was primal, visceral, instinctive terror, an alien horror that no mind could ever truly comprehend. It was a feeling that something was fundamentally wrong, as if the laws of existence themselves had just been called into question.
("This... is destroying the realm?")
Her mind reeled at the thought. This level of devastation—this sheer, unholy upheaval—was something she had never encountered before. A part of her, a foolish part, thought of stabilizing the realm with her magic, of pushing back against the tide of oblivion before it swallowed everything.
But she never got the chance.
Because just as suddenly as the quaking had begun—it stopped.
A moment of silence.
Lucinda felt her breath hitch, her heart hammering against her ribs. There was something wrong about the way the universe had settled. Like a breath held too long, like a silence that was not natural but forced.
"Oh, they actually managed to contain that immense power before that Goddess's anchors came undone."
Rhiannon's voice was completely and utterly detached.
Lucinda's lips pressed into a thin line. She turned her gaze to the Ancestor, watching her closely, studying every minute detail of her expression—or rather, the lack of one.
How?
How could she be so calm?
Lucinda's own body still trembled from that force. Even now, she could feel remnants of it lingering in the fabric of reality, a faint yet undeniable trace of whatever had just transpired. And yet Rhiannon…
Rhiannon acted as if it were nothing.
Lucinda clenched her fists.
("Does she hold power of that scale?")
It was not impossible. Rhiannon was the strongest Ancestor, after all—one of those enigmas. Perhaps something like this truly meant nothing to her.
But even so—
"You're gawking, girl. A feat of such power is not beyond you, you know."
Lucinda's teeth gritted.
Though the words should have been a compliment, the tone in which Rhiannon spoke them made them sting like an insult.
It was mocking.
"It would still take effort to unleash a spell of that magnitude," Lucinda murmured, voice restrained.
"But what of that blade?"
There it was—the shift.
The conversation changed as swiftly as it had begun, as if they were not just speaking about the potential unraveling of the universe.
Lucinda exhaled sharply through her nose, eyes flickering downward toward the silver weapon clutched in her grasp.
Rhiannon continued.
"Though it lies dormant, it's as mighty as your Harbinger, no? I'm quite surprised that the false Goddess placed such a powerful weapon in your possession."
Lucinda's crimson gaze traced over the simple, elegant form of her blade.
It was deceptively unremarkable—a weapon that lacked any excessive ornamentation, any extravagant design. Yet she knew, as did Rhiannon, that its true nature lay beyond its mere appearance.
Still—
"False Goddess."
Lucinda noted how easily Rhiannon uttered the words now and earlier.
There was no hesitation.
She said it as if it were fact.
Lucinda did not care about the insult to Octavia, but it was obvious that Rhiannon was baiting her.
And perhaps, on some level, it worked.
"You keep calling Octavia a false Goddess…" Lucinda spoke at last, voice carefully measured. "Do you dislike her so much?"
A pause.
"Nothing to do with distaste. Though I've battled her before, I do not bear any hate for Octavia. In fact, I quite respect her. But she is not a true God."
Lucinda's brows furrowed. "Do you mean to say she's a pretender?"
"In a sense," Rhiannon mused, as if the answer was obvious.
Her voice took on a strange, distant quality, as if recalling something from a time far beyond the reach of mortal memory.
"There are eight realms in total. Though, one of the realms is too thoroughly ruined to be considered one, so only seven now, including this realm, of course."
Lucinda's brows knit together in confusion.
("What is she getting at?")
"But Octavia…" Rhiannon continued, "She resided in another place entirely. She was never part of this system, never part of these realms. She came from beyond—bringing with her something new. She brought along the very concept of magic itself."
Lucinda knew that upon being born, Gods brought new concepts. That much seemed the same for Octavia, but not in the same way.
"Therefore empowering all to use it," Rhiannon concluded. "An angel—that's what she is."
Lucinda froze.
Angel.
A word she had heard before, faintly, vaguely, a term that lingered in the forgotten depths of history.
But before she could respond—
The fabric of space bent.
Lucinda barely had time to react before a streak of white light ripped through the void.
It was moving at speeds beyond what they could perceive, cutting across the space in an instant, streaking toward the distant, desolate planet below.
Lucinda blinked.
The light—
The presence—
What just happened?
---------------------
[???]
A blistering steam rose from the landscape, curling from the fractured earth where he had landed. The force of his impact had cratered the area, the charred ground trembling in the aftermath, cracks snaking outward.
Mikoto stood within the heart of that devastation, his radiant form dimming. His hidden gaze trailed toward Selwyn, yet there was no longer an opponent before him—only a ruin of a man.
Selwyn's Paradigm Rebirth had long faded, leaving his body grotesquely contorted. His bare chest was marred with festering wounds, rotten flesh peeling away in patches, exposing raw, necrotic tissue beneath. His right arm was nothing more than a jagged, bloodied stump where it had been torn from its socket, a jagged mess of exposed bone and shredded tendons. His left eye was gone—its empty socket oozing with congealed blood, the surrounding skin darkened with putrid decay. Deep, gruesome gashes littered his form, some so severe they looked as though something had tried to carve him apart from the inside.
His once-raven hair barely clung to his scalp, many strands singed away, others matted against his skin with dried blood and sweat. His breath came in ragged, each inhale a struggle, each exhale wet with the sound of internal damage beyond repair. And yet, even in such an appalling state, Selwyn still bore that grin—that same damned grin, as if even at Death's door, he refused to relinquish whatever sick pleasure he derived from all this.
"Well satisfied, animal?" Mikoto's questioned dully.
Selwyn's broken body trembled with laughter—a deep, rasping sound, bubbling from a throat that had taken far too much punishment. It was sickly, guttural, yet disturbingly genuine.
"…Haha…" A choking wheeze followed, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth. "For the first time in my existence… I am."
Mikoto scoffed, the radiant glow of his form flickering once more before a white light encased his body. His figure shrank, shifting and morphing, the remnants of his Arcane Ascendance unraveling. The light splintered away like shards of glass, revealing his true self beneath—his smaller frame, his softer features. He exhaled, and for the first time, he allowed himself to truly look at Selwyn.
"So you let me gaze upon your beauty one more time," Selwyn spoke, another weezing chuckle escaping him.
His lips twisted downward into a deep frown. This… wasn't what he expected. Where was the satisfaction? The triumph? Where was that overwhelming rush of victory? The exhilaration of crushing the life out of an enemy who had pushed him this far?
Instead, all he felt was… nothing.
"Good for you," Mikoto muttered, his tone void of any real care. His fingers twitched slightly before he absently flicked a stray lock of hair from his face. "You're this beat up, and you're still acting creepy."
Selwyn coughed, the motion wracking his frail frame, but he still forced out another laugh—one that turned into a ragged choke. Blood splattered against the cracked ground beneath him, pooling around his knees as he barely managed to keep himself upright. His body was failing.
"You've given everything you've got, and now you're going to die." Mikoto tilted his head slightly, his tone neither cruel nor kind—simply stating a fact. "You died doing what you love, huh?"
A gurgling chuckle. "O-of course… haha…" His voice wavered, but there was a flicker of something almost… satisfied in his dulling eye. "At the very least… I have ingrained this battle into your mind."
Mikoto snorted. "Don't flatter yourself."
He raised his hand, fingers curling slightly, his palm aimed directly at Selwyn's ruined face. A pause. A breath. The space between them stretched thin, the silence oppressive.
A burst.
Selwyn's head imploded. The sound was wet, visceral—his skull caved inward before bursting apart entirely, fragments of bone, brain matter, and thick, dark blood splattering across the ruined ground. His headless corpse teetered for a moment, swaying as if still trying to defy gravity, before collapsing unceremoniously onto the ground, twitching once before going still.
Mikoto did not blink.
He watched idly as the monotone voice of the festivals system droned in his ears, its cold detachment the exact opposite to the brutality of what had just occurred. A bright light engulfed what remained of Selwyn's corpse, whisking it away, leaving behind only the blood-stained ground as evidence that he had ever existed at all.
Yet still—nothing.
No relief. No vindication. Just a vast, yawning void within him.
His lips parted slightly before pressing together into a thin line. His fingers clenched at his sides. This… was supposed to feel different.
He turned on his heel, exhaling sharply. But the moment he took a step forward—
His knees buckled. His legs crumpled beneath him, and he collapsed.
"—!!"
A sharp, guttural sound wrenched from his throat as he hit the ground on one knee, his body convulsing. A violent, nauseating heat surged through his veins, his insides twisting in agony, as though his very organs were being crushed under an unbearable weight.
"Blegh—!"
A mouthful of blood and saliva forcibly spilled from his lips, splattering against the dirt. His body trembled violently, his breaths uneven. It felt like fire had been poured into his veins, every fiber of his being screaming in protest. His hands dug into the ground, fingers twitching as he forced himself to remain conscious.
("I've barely been in that form for ten minutes… and this is the result?!")
His teeth clenched. His body felt as though it had been systematically destroyed from the inside out. Every nerve was raw, his bones brittle, his muscles shredded. He had assumed Arcane Ascendance would take a toll, but not like this—this was beyond what he had anticipated.
"Tch… it was that explosion of power," he murmured, his voice hoarse. ("When I turned into that… thing.") If he had not created a physical shell, then he did not know what would have happened to him. That much power was not something he could handle.
His fingers twitched as he attempted to summon healing magic—only for an immediate, excruciating pain to lash through him, sharp and unbearable.
("Damn it—my magic is unstable…! The drawbacks… what an absolute pain.")
He exhaled shakily, forcing himself upright. His vision swayed. Every step felt heavier, but he had no choice. If he was discovered in this state—
("If an enemy finds me like this… I'm screwed.")
He grit his teeth, staggering forward. He needed to get out of here. He needed to—
Pain.
A sharp, searing agony tore through his chest.
His breath hitched.
His gaze flicked downward.
A blade was embedded deep into his torso.