The battlefield churned with chaos as the barrier flickered, its renewed strength already being tested by the relentless tide. Magda's sacrifice had bolstered the defenses, but the damage was done—beasts that had breached earlier still roamed within the camp, and the strain on her mana echoed through the air like an unspoken plea.
Raphael, who had just obliterated the red chimera to save Micheal, barely spared a glance at the crumpled remains of the beast. His attention was solely on Magda's mana signature, which tugged at his soul through their bond, steady but faint. As he began striding purposefully toward the central glyphs, a shattering noise rippled through the battlefield. The barrier at the southern edge crumbled, and through the breach emerged a towering figure cloaked in red fog.
The two-headed devil, with its crimson skin and glowing twin sets of eyes, sauntered into the camp. Its grotesque form exuded a perverse elegance, each head leering with a cruel smile. Soldiers nearby faltered, their weapons trembling in their hands. The aura it carried was oppressive, sending waves of dread rippling through the defenders.
"Cousin," the devil called out, its discordant voice slicing through the battlefield. Both heads grinned as their gaze landed on Raphael, who stood motionless, his court attire almost absurd amidst the carnage. The flickering mana stones cast eerie shadows across his face, highlighting the icy fury simmering in his ruby-red eyes.
"You are far from home, aren't you?" the devil continued, stepping closer. "The Devil King weakens, and the throne calls. Will you join me to claim what is rightfully ours? Or will you stand in my way, as always?"
Raphael's jaw tightened. He wasn't here for politics or power struggles. He was here for his daughter. He had felt a hard pull at their bond, Magda had suffered from a mana-backlash because of the devil forcefully breaking in through the barrier. His voice, sharp and unforgiving, cut through the devil's posturing.
"I have no time for this."
The devil chuckled, an unsettling sound that seemed to vibrate through the very air. "No time? Surely, even you, great Raphael Valoria, can hear the call of the throne? You, who turned your back on your kind to play human—do you think they will ever truly accept you?"
Raphael took a step forward, his aura shifting. The oppressive atmosphere the devil had created evaporated under the weight of his power, replaced by an overwhelming intensity that sent shivers through everyone present. Soldiers, beasts, and even the devil itself felt the suffocating pressure.
"I said," Raphael hissed, his crimson eyes burning like molten fire, "I have no time for this."
The devil hesitated, its confidence waning, but its pride wouldn't let it back down. "You feel it too, don't you?" it taunted, one head cocking mockingly while the other leered. "The pain. Is it from that little mage? Crimson eyes, meddlesome aura? She's been such a nuisance—"
"Enough." Raphael's voice was a death knell. The air around him crackled with unrestrained energy, his devil aura unfurling like a storm.
Both heads of the devil faltered, the sneers slipping from their faces. But pride made it reckless, and it lunged at Raphael with claws glowing with malice.
With a flick of his fingers, Raphael unleashed a shockwave of energy that sent the beast hurtling backward. It skidded across the ground, leaving a deep gouge in the earth, before slamming into a crumbled wall.
"She is my daughter," Raphael said, his voice low and dangerous. "And she is worth more than your miserable existence—or the wretched throne you so desperately covet."
The two-headed devil staggered to its feet, trembling under the weight of Raphael's presence. Its heads snapped toward him, their expressions a mix of fear and rage. "You dare—"
Another flick of Raphael's wrist, and the air split with a deafening crack. A searing arc of energy sliced through the devil, forcing it to its knees.
Raphael raised his hand, the air warping around it as he tore open a dimensional rift. The swirling void pulsed with an unnatural light, its edges jagged and unstable. The soldiers who dared to look could feel the sheer terror radiating from it, a portal to a place no mortal—or devil—should tread.
The devil's twin heads turned toward the rift, their crimson eyes widening in horror. "No! You can't—"
Raphael's voice was calm, almost detached, as he delivered the final blow. "When you see our great-great-grandfather in the void, tell him I said 'hello.'"
With a casual flick of his hand, Raphael sent the devil hurtling into the rift. Its screams echoed briefly before being swallowed by the void, leaving nothing behind but silence.
The rift snapped shut, and Raphael stood alone amidst the stunned silence. The soldiers who had witnessed the confrontation stared at him, awe and fear mingling in their eyes. But Raphael didn't care about their reactions. His focus was singular.
He turned back toward the camp, his senses locking onto Magda's mana. The bond between them pulsed faintly, its weakness spurring him into motion.
"Hold on," he whispered, more to himself than to her. Without sparing another glance at the battlefield, Raphael strode forward, the embodiment of both power and purpose.
The battlefield was quieting, though not from the triumph of the soldiers but the sheer presence of Raphael Valoria, Emperor of the Healian Empire. The once-ferocious beasts that had breached the barrier now cowered, their will to fight obliterated by the oppressive weight of his aura. Even the air felt heavier, as if it, too, bowed in submission to the ruler.
At the southern line, Duke Louis von Shelb, his sword still gripped tightly, surveyed the surreal scene. The Duke's armor bore the marks of a hard-fought battle, yet he couldn't tear his eyes away from the Emperor. Raphael stood in the center of the chaos, his presence effortless, his crimson eyes scanning the remnants of the battlefield with detached precision. But it wasn't just his aura that drew attention.
He was dressed in his court attire.
The gold-embroidered black robe swept the ground, its intricate patterns glowing faintly under the barrier's light. A royal sash crossed his chest, and his polished boots were entirely unsuited for battle. The sight was as awe-inspiring as it was absurd—here was the Emperor, wearing the attire of governance, not war, yet standing on the battlefield as if it were his rightful place.
Count Drifter Armond, his imposing frame looming even among the chaos, leaned on his bloodied axe. His weathered face, usually carved from stoic determination, bore an expression of bewilderment. "Your Grace," he rumbled, his voice low, "is it just me, or does he look like he's ready to hold court instead of fight?"
Louis, still trying to process the scene, replied absently, "He teleported here. He didn't even change."
Drifter let out a low whistle, his tone tinged with reluctant admiration. "Didn't even break a sweat. It's like this wasn't even a fight for him."
At that, Ethan von Shelb, the Duke's eldest son, approached on his golden wyvern. The beast landed smoothly beside them, its scales glinting in the dim light. Ethan dismounted, his usually sharp expression softened by awe. His short blonde hair was damp with sweat, and his armor bore fresh scrapes from combat, but his piercing blue eyes were fixed solely on the Emperor.
"Father," Ethan said, his voice carefully controlled, "is it really him? The Emperor?"
Louis nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Raphael. "It is."
Ethan exhaled sharply, his gaze shifting to the subdued battlefield. "How? How does a battle that seemed hopeless become... this?"
"Because to him," Louis said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of realization, "this was never a battle."
Drifter chuckled softly, though his tone lacked its usual bravado. "We all thought 'Archmage' was just a title he inherited as Emperor. Turns out, the stories were true."
Ethan frowned, his emotions clearly conflicted. "All this for Magda," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "The Emperor... he came for her."
Louis finally tore his gaze away from Raphael, his features shadowed with thought. "I never expected him to. I thought his heart had died with Celeste."
Ethan's jaw tightened, his thoughts drifting to Flora. "It's strange," he said bitterly. "To see him like this—overflowing with love for Magda—and to think he left Flora in the palace for sixteen years, completely neglected."
The Duke's expression darkened. "I know. I've spent years believing he valued merit above blood, that he was as cold as the stories made him out to be. But now…"
His words trailed off as Raphael moved further into the camp, his movements calm, his courtly robes untouched by the blood and grime of the battlefield. His every step radiated authority, and yet there was an urgency beneath his composure—a father searching for his child.
Drifter's rumbling voice broke the silence. "Your Grace, did you know he'd come for her?"
Louis shook his head, his tone uncharacteristically uncertain. "No. I thought if it came to the worst, she'd summon her teacher, the Headmaster. I never imagined he would come himself."
Ethan's lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile. "Well, Magda's managed to do something no one else could—bring the Emperor himself to the front lines."
Drifter hefted his axe, a rare grin spreading across his rugged face. "If nothing else, this will be a story to tell the grandkids—assuming we live that long."
Ethan turned back to his father, his voice quieter now. "What does it mean, Father? That he came like this. That he... cares?"
Louis met his son's gaze, his tone firm yet tinged with unease. "It means we've underestimated him. As a ruler, as a man, and as a father."
Drifter's voice was lighter now, though his awe remained. "If this is what happens when the Emperor fights, I'm just glad we're on his side."
Ethan's expression hardened. "He's not just a protector or an Archmage. He's a father." He paused, his gaze lingering on Raphael's distant figure. "I just wish Flora had known that side of him."
Louis's hand tightened around his sword hilt. "So do I, Ethan. So do I."
The three men stood in silence, watching as Raphael's silhouette disappeared into the heart of the camp. For Drifter, it was a moment that reaffirmed the legends. For Ethan, it was a painful juxtaposition of admiration and bitterness. And for Louis, it was a revelation that shattered years of assumptions. Raphael Valoria, the man they had all underestimated, wasn't just an Emperor or an Archmage. He was a father who would move heaven and earth for the daughter he loved.
The battlefield was chaos—shattered glyphs, smoldering debris, and the distant cries of soldiers echoing across the camp. But amidst the turmoil, Raphael's crimson eyes locked onto a single figure: Magda, crumpled near the central glyphs, her trembling hands still desperately channeling mana. Her pale complexion was streaked with blood and the faint shimmer of expended mana, her fragile form barely upright.
His heart clenched. In an instant, he was at her side.
"Magda!" Raphael's voice was both a roar and a plea. His flawless court attire, so starkly out of place amidst the destruction, barely registered in the moment. His usually controlled composure cracked as he knelt beside her, his hands gripping her shoulders. "What have you done to yourself?"
Magda blinked up at him, her vision hazy. "Father?" Her voice was faint, tinged with disbelief. "I must be hallucinating... You can't be here."
"I'm here," Raphael said, his voice softer now but trembling with urgency. His gaze swept over her—her trembling frame, the blood at her temple, the dark circles under her eyes—and his chest tightened with anguish.
"You shouldn't… be here," she murmured, her hand weakly gesturing toward the battlefield. "I—I can still—"
"Enough." Raphael silenced her with a tone that brooked no argument. He gently removed her trembling hand from the glyph. She gasped as the barrier dimmed slightly, but Raphael's fingers pressed against hers, steadying her. "You've done more than enough. Let me take it from here."
Magda tried to protest, but her strength faltered. Her head lolled slightly, resting against his chest. "I… I'm sorry," she whispered, tears streaking her bloodied face. "I should've been stronger… should've done better."
Raphael's jaw clenched as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms. "You don't have to apologize. Not for this—not for anything."
Before she could argue further, the two vanished in a flash of crimson light, leaving behind the chaos of the battlefield.
The shared domain shimmered around them, its tranquil hues of crimson and gold pulsating gently in harmony with their entwined mana. Magda lay against Raphael's chest, her breaths shallow but steady as his mana surged into her, replenishing her dwindling reserves. She stared at the shifting lights of their shared space, her mind a storm of emotions.
The shared domain between a parent and child of devil blood line is a spiritual sanctuary where they can physically or spiritually meet, regardless of distance. Shaped by their bond, it reflects their emotions, offering a place of solace and connection. It serves as a timeless space to communicate, strengthen their bond, and share in each other's presence.
"Why didn't you come for me before?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Was it because… I was too weak?"
Raphael froze. His hand, which had been smoothing her disheveled hair, stilled. The question pierced him in a way no blade ever could.
"Too weak?" His voice broke, barely above a whisper. He tilted her face toward his, crimson eyes meeting hers. "Magda, no. Never think that."
"Then why?" she demanded, her tears welling up. "Why did you leave me with Steffan? Why didn't you use our bond to find me? Was I so insignificant to you that you couldn't even try?"
At the Imperial Academy, Magda first learned about the parental bond—a bloodline skill where a child's mana naturally resonates with their parent's, seeking connection regardless of distance. The realization had stung deeply; Raphael could have reached her through the link, yet he never tried. "If he truly cared, why didn't he come?" she had wondered, disappointment settling like a stone in her heart.
Raphael's grip on her tightened, his regal composure shattering. His voice, raw and unsteady, spilled forth the truth he had carried like a poison in his heart. "I didn't come for you because I was scared," he confessed, his head bowing as though he couldn't bear to meet her gaze. "Terrified of what I might find—or not find."
Magda blinked, confused by his words. "What do you mean?"
Raphael took a deep, shuddering breath, his crimson eyes glistening with unshed tears. "The parental bond… It isn't just a connection. It's a reflection of your child's existence. If I had reached out to that bond and found nothing—if there was only an empty void—what would it have meant?" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing. "It could mean you had never been born. That Celeste had… been unfaithful to me. That Flora was her child, but not ours."
Magda's eyes widened in shock. "You thought—"
"I didn't want to think it," Raphael interrupted, his voice trembling. "I loved Celeste. I still love her. My faith in her never wavered. But in those dark moments, when the pain of losing her was unbearable, the whispers of doubt crept in. I couldn't bear the thought that our love might have been a lie."
He paused, his fingers brushing against her cheek as though grounding himself in her presence. "But that wasn't the worst fear. The worst fear was… what if I found the bond and it was there, but faint? What if I felt the echo of you, but you were gone? What if you had been born and died, alone and unprotected? I… I would rather have believed you never existed than face that."
"I've known the emptiness of a bond before," he continued, his voice a whisper now. "When my father died, the bond we shared dissolved into nothingness. That hollow void nearly consumed me. And with you… if I reached out and found that same emptiness…" His voice broke, and he looked away, his shoulders trembling.
Magda's breath hitched, the weight of his words settling heavily in her chest. She had always thought his absence was indifference, but now she saw it for what it was—paralyzing fear.
"And then," Raphael continued, his voice softening, "there was this possibility. What if you had been born dead and replaced? After Celeste's difficult labor, I thought—what if the midwives, terrified of reporting the deaths of both mother and child, left a random baby in her place? Flora… Flora doesn't resemble me or Celeste. She couldn't use mana or aura, which I assumed was because the midwives were in a hurry and didn't know my unique heritage. I thought they might have left me with a child who was nothing like the both of us as a proxy. Because of my own fears, I let her stay around; I ensured she was fed, clothed, and received the education she deserved. But beyond that, I couldn't bring myself to truly accept her as my own."
Magda's heart twisted painfully. For years, she had carried resentment for the father she thought didn't care, only to find that his silence had been rooted in love and fear.
"I was wrong," Raphael said, his voice breaking. "When you found me, Magda, you redeemed me. You restored my faith in myself and in Celeste. You gave me a reason to believe again, even after all the years of doubt. For that, I will never stop being grateful."
Magda's tears fell freely now, mingling with her guilt and relief. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I blamed you. I hated you for so long."
"And I'm sorry," Raphael replied, his crimson eyes shimmering with emotion. "For not being brave enough to find you sooner. For letting my fear keep me from you. But know this, Magda—you were never too weak. To me, just knowing you're alive is more than enough reason to love you."
Magda's lips trembled as she nodded, her voice barely audible. "Thank you… Father."
Raphael's eyes softened, his thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. "And thank you, Magda, for letting me be your father."
As the bond between them deepened, Magda felt a strange sense of peace. For the first time, she understood the depth of Raphael's love—not the commanding presence of an Emperor, but the raw, unyielding love of a parent who would rather live with uncertainty than come in terms with losing his child.
She thought of how Steffan had loathed her, how she had fought for scraps of affection, only to find herself here—in the arms of a father who had always loved her, even when he didn't know how to show it.
Raphael's voice broke the silence. "You're stronger than you realize, Magda. Your mother… she would be so proud of you."
Magda closed her eyes, letting his words wash over her. For the first time, she believed them.
In the distance, the battle raged on. But here, in this shared space, a father and daughter began to heal wounds that had scarred them for years.
And in their bond, Magda found not just strength—but hope.