The battlefield raged on, the barrier pulsating with light as it struggled to hold against the relentless tide. Soldiers fought valiantly, their weapons clashing against the claws and fangs of beasts that had managed to slip through the weakened defenses. The air was thick with the acrid stench of blood and smoke, the cries of the wounded mingling with the triumphant roars of surviving warriors.
Micheal, astride Breeze, galloped through the chaos, carrying injured soldiers to safety and shoring up weak points in the defenses. His newly transformed mount sparked with electricity, its thunderous howls sending shivers through both allies and enemies. For a fleeting moment, hope seemed to glimmer in the midst of despair.
But at the heart of the camp, where the central glyphs pulsed like a beating heart, the truth was undeniable—the mana stones powering the barrier were nearly depleted. The once-brilliant glow of the formations dimmed with each passing minute, and with it, the barrier's healing faltered. The cracks widened, and the soldiers braced themselves for the inevitable collapse.
Magda stood by the central glyph, her crimson eyes scanning the battlefield. Her mind raced, calculating and recalculating the time they had left. The numbers didn't add up. Even with Breeze's miraculous evolution and the renewed efforts of the soldiers, it wasn't enough.
Edran stumbled toward her, his face pale and his robes torn. "Magda," he rasped, clutching his staff for support. "The mana stones… they're almost gone. If the barrier falls—"
She cut him off, her voice steady despite the storm within her. "I know."
Edran's expression twisted with desperation. "There must be something we can do. Something—"
Magda pressed her lips into a thin line, her mind racing. She knew what needed to be done. Her immense mana reserves, a trait she had always viewed as both a blessing and a curse, could temporarily rejuvenate the barrier. It would buy them time—time for the soldiers to regroup, for the injured to be pulled to safety. Time for… survival.
But she also knew the cost.
Steeling herself, Magda placed her hand over the central glyph. The glowing patterns pulsed weakly under her touch, as if sensing the last vestiges of power slipping away. She glanced at Edran, her voice calm despite the turmoil within her.
"There is." Magda's words were calm, resolute. She turned to him, the faintest smile on her lips. "I'll take over."
Edran's eyes widened in alarm. "Magda, no! You can't—"
"I have to," she interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. "There's no other way. We need time."
She gazed at the unconscious Calista, slumped against the rune stone where a soldier had left her after a daring rescue. Turning to Edran, she said, "Take her to safety, somewhere far from the battlefield."
Before Edran could protest further, she stepped forward and placed her hands on the central glyph. A surge of energy rippled through the formations as her mana poured into the barrier. The dim glow flared to life, a dazzling brilliance that pushed back the advancing tide. Soldiers cheered, their morale bolstered by what seemed like a miraculous resurgence.
But inside, Magda's world grew darker.
The strain of channeling her mana was immediate and overwhelming. It clawed at her soul, tearing away at her reserves with an intensity that left her trembling. For the first time in her life, she could relate to the mages who complained of mana deficiency, a phenomenon where more mana leaves one's body than can be naturally replenished. Yet she remained still, her hands steady against the glyph as the barrier held firm.
The cheers of the soldiers echoed around her, but they were distant, muffled by the storm of memories that surged in her mind. Each one a reminder of the life she had lived—and the life she had lost.
She thought of Steffan Featherfield, the man who had raised her but never loved her. His hatred had shadowed her childhood, his venomous words branding her as an unwanted intruder in his family. "You're not mine," he had spat once, his eyes cold and unyielding. The memory burned, even now. Yet she had clung to him, keeping both him and herself alive.
She thought of her debut ball, the night that should have marked her entrance into society. Ethan had stolen the spotlight, dedicating his military accolades to Flora and leaving Magda in the shadows. She had left early, unnoticed and forgotten, her carefully rehearsed smiles fading into silence. Outside, she had met Micheal—a boy who, like her, had no place in the grandeur of the aristocracy.
"It's too much in there," he had said, his voice soft but genuine. She had clung to those words, to the connection they offered. But two years later, when they married, he hadn't recognized her. The boy who had seen her when no one else did had become the man who couldn't see her at all.
Her lips trembled as she whispered into the empty air, "I waited for you, Micheal. But you never came."
Tears welled in her eyes, unbidden and unwelcome. She thought of Raphael, the Emperor who had tried so hard to be a father to her. His kindness had terrified her, his love a reminder of how easily it could be taken away. She had pushed him away, afraid to accept the family he offered.
As the strain tugged at her soul, a deep sense of finality settled over Magda. She reached into her spiritual domain, summoning a silent plea, a fleeting connection to the one person who had always tried to love her, even when she couldn't let him.
"I'm sorry," she thought, her mind reaching out to Raphael. "And… thank you, Father."
The word felt foreign yet comforting, a fragile bridge between the walls she had built around herself and the love she had always craved. She used the word deliberately, for the first time allowing herself to acknowledge him as more than just the Emperor.
Far away, in his study, Raphael froze. His hand trembled, and the delicate porcelain cup he held slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor. His crimson eyes widened, and for the first time in years, the courtiers saw fear in their sovereign's expression.
"Your Majesty?" one of them ventured cautiously.
Raphael didn't respond. His breath hitched as the bond between them flared, her mana brushing against his with a sense of finality. It wasn't just a call—it was a goodbye.
He stood abruptly, his aura pulsing with urgency. The courtiers exchanged bewildered glances, but he offered no explanation as he strode from the room. His daughter needed him.
Back at the battlefield, Magda's vision blurred as the glyph beneath her hands pulsed with her life force. She wondered if this was how her mother had felt, giving everything to ensure her child's survival.
"Is this what it means to be strong?" she wondered bitterly. "To give, and give, until there's nothing left?"
Her tears fell freely now, mingling with the blood and sweat that streaked her face. She thought of the life she had never truly lived—a life of duty and sacrifice, of unspoken dreams and unfulfilled desires. She thought of Micheal, of the love she had never been given before and now not brave enough to claim.
"I hope this is enough," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I hope… I was enough."
She closed her eyes, the cheers of the soldiers ringing hollow in her ears. In that moment, she wasn't Magda the mage, the Emperor's daughter, or Micheal's wife. She was just a girl—scared, lonely, and yearning for a life she would never have.
The barrier flared brighter, its light a beacon of hope against the tide of darkness. But Magda's world grew quieter, her body trembling as the last reserves of her mana poured into the formations.
Far away, Raphael stood in his study, his mana flaring with such intensity that the air in the room grew heavy. Subconsciously, he had unleashed his battle aura. The courtiers stumbled back, their faces pale with fear.
"Magda," he whispered, his voice breaking.
Without a word, he turned and strode from the room, leaving behind a trail of shattered porcelain and startled advisors. He had to find her. He had to reach her. He had to save her.
She was the baby he and Celeste had sworn to protect.
The renewed brilliance of the barrier, bolstered by Magda's self-sacrifice, had given the camp a fleeting moment of hope. But the remnants of the beasts that had slipped through earlier still roamed the battlefield, leaving destruction in their wake. Among them was a red chimera—a nightmare of mismatched limbs and predatory instincts—that had wreaked havoc on the Southern Front.
The beast was a grotesque amalgamation of its victims, their bodies absorbed and transformed into monstrous appendages. Its three glowing eyes scanned the carnage, locking onto Micheal, Claude, and Garrick, the only soldiers left standing in its path.
Claude's sharp hazel eyes darted between the chimera and the wounded Garrick, who leaned heavily on his axe. "This thing… it's not just strong," Claude muttered. "It's cruel."
"It's hunting us," Garrick growled, his bear-like features twisted in pain.
Micheal tightened his grip on the broken spear he had salvaged, his knuckles white. The chimera loomed over them, its hulking frame blocking out the flickering light of the barrier behind it.
Twice in one day, Micheal thought bitterly. Twice he had stared death in the face. First the yellow troll, and now this. The weight of his own mortality pressed down on him, heavier than the spear in his hands.
The chimera roared, its twisted maw opening to reveal jagged teeth. It charged, its massive claws tearing through the ground.
"Move!" Claude shouted, shoving Micheal aside as the beast's claws slammed into the earth where he had stood moments before.
Micheal stumbled, his chest heaving as adrenaline coursed through his veins. His mind raced, but his body felt sluggish, weighed down by fear and exhaustion. For a brief, agonizing moment, he thought of home—the Shelb estate, his brothers, and Magda.
"I wasn't ready for this," Micheal thought, his vision blurring with unshed tears. "I didn't want to die. Not here. Not like this."
The chimera turned its attention to Garrick, who struggled to lift his axe. The bear beastman's injuries left him vulnerable, and the chimera's glowing eyes gleamed with predatory intent.
"No!" Micheal shouted, throwing himself in the chimera's path. He raised his broken spear, his hands trembling.
The chimera swatted the spear aside like a twig, sending Micheal sprawling. He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs. As he lay there, staring up at the monstrous figure looming over him, he felt the last remnants of hope slip away.
Then, the pendant around his neck began to glow.
The light was faint at first, a soft pulse against his chest. But within moments, it erupted into a blinding radiance, flooding the battlefield with golden light. The chimera recoiled, snarling as if the light itself was burning its twisted flesh.
"What…?" Micheal whispered, his voice barely audible.
The light enveloped him, Claude, Garrick, and even Breeze, forming a protective barrier. It crackled with power, the air vibrating with an almost divine energy. From the heart of the light, a figure emerged.
Raphael Valoria, Emperor of the Healian Empire, stepped forward.
But he wasn't dressed for battle. His regal robes, suited for court proceedings, flowed around him, their golden embroidery shimmering in the radiant light. He looked as if he had just stepped out of his study, yet his crimson eyes burned with a fury that made even the chimera hesitate.
"Royal father," Micheal breathed, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
The term was sacred, reserved only for the Emperor's children and their spouses. Micheal's use of it was instinctive, born of both awe and reverence.
Raphael's gaze flicked briefly to Micheal, his expression unreadable. Then, he turned his attention to the chimera.
The beast roared, its fury reignited, and lunged toward him.
Raphael didn't move.
With a flick of his finger, a wave of golden energy erupted from him. The attack was precise and devastating, striking the chimera with unerring accuracy. The beast froze mid-lunge, its body convulsing as the energy tore through it. Then, in a burst of ash and light, it was gone.
The battlefield fell silent, the oppressive weight of the chimera's presence lifted.
Raphael turned to Micheal, his voice calm but firm. "Where is Magda?"
Micheal, still stunned, struggled to find his words. "She's… she's at the central formations," he managed, pointing toward the heart of the camp.
But before Micheal could say more, Raphael's expression darkened. His aura flared as he detected Magda's mana—fragile and strained. Without another word, he vanished in a blur of speed, leaving the three soldiers in stunned silence.
Claude was the first to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. "Who… who was that?"
Micheal, his hands still trembling, stared at the spot where Raphael had stood. "Royal father," he said, the words carrying both awe and disbelief.
Claude blinked. "You mean… the Emperor? The Emperor?"
Garrick let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Merchant Prince, you've been holding out on us."
Micheal didn't respond. His hand instinctively touched the pendant, its warmth lingering against his chest. He glanced at Breeze, who stood by his side, his fur crackling with residual energy.
For the first time, Micheal felt a profound sense of connection—not just to his family, but to something greater.
"Come on," he said finally, his voice steadying. "We've got work to do."
The three of them moved forward, the light of the pendant still flickering faintly as they rejoined the fray.