"Go" she finally said, her voice softer now. “Before history decides to close its door.”

  Leon gave a firm nod, steeling himself for whatever lay beyond. Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward, grasping the wooden handle of the door, and pushed it open.

  The fog parted.

  And time itself seemed to tremble.

  As Leon, Atruis, and Selene stepped beyond the threshold of the old woman’s home, the world around them shifted instantly—violently.

  The comforting warmth of the wooden cabin vanished.

  The scent of aged books and burning incense was ripped away, replaced by something vile, something rotten. The air was thick with the acrid stench of decay, the unmistakable odor of death clinging to their lungs with each breath. The ground beneath their boots was uneven and cracked, littered with splintered debris and fragments of what once stood tall. Ruins stretched endlessly before them, remnants of a civilization long lost to time, now reduced to charred rubble and skeletal remains.

  Nearby, the flames of destruction burned on, flickering hungrily in the darkness. Though some fires had long since died, their embers still glowed a deep, malevolent red, whispering of the devastation that had taken place. Heat radiated in waves, distorting the air around them, making the ruined structures shimmer like ghosts. The remnants of what might have once been banners or signs hung tattered and blackened by soot, swaying gently in a breeze that carried the echoes of a battle long since fought.

  Atruis, ever observant, scanned the landscape with sharp eyes, searching for anything that could give them a vantage point. His gaze traveled across the destruction before settling on a cliff in the distance—a jagged outcrop that loomed over the ruins like a silent sentinel.

  “There,” he said, pointing toward it. “Emperor Magnus, would that cliff be a suitable vantage point?”

  Leon followed his line of sight, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed the location. The elevated ground would give them a clearer view of the battlefield, a chance to truly witness the past unfold before them. More than that—it might bring them closer to Prada himself.

  Selene remained silent, but her hand rested near her weapon, eyes wary. She could feel it too—the unnatural weight of the air, the presence of something ancient lingering in the ruins.

  Leon took a slow breath, steadying himself. Then, without hesitation, he nodded.

  “Let’s move.”

  With that, the three of them pressed forward, their steps careful yet determined as they made their way toward the cliff, the heat of the dying flames licking at their backs, and the past waiting to reveal its secrets.

  As Leon, Atruis, and Selene settled into their vantage point atop the cliff, they remained still, their breaths quiet as they took in the grand scale of the battlefield before them.

  Despite the hundreds—no, possibly thousands—of miles stretching between them and the war-torn land below, they could see it all with unnerving clarity. The sheer destruction carved into the land, the oppressive heat from rivers of molten rock that had burst through the earth like wounds, the towering skeletal remains of collapsed fortresses—this was a place that had long since lost its name, reduced to a graveyard of civilizations swallowed by war.

  And in the heart of this hellish ruin, standing alone amidst the flames and chaos, was him.

  Prada.

  The light emanating from behind him was blinding, a golden radiance that obscured his features and made him appear less like a man and more like a force of nature itself. The way the luminance clung to him, casting a long shadow over the battlefield, made it seem as though the very world bent in his presence—as if he was the only constant in a realm of destruction.

  But it was not just the sight of him that shook the battlefield. It was his presence.

  Before him stood a massive army—tens of thousands of the Demon King's remaining soldiers. Towering, monstrous beings covered in blood-red skin, their forms grotesque and powerful. Their jagged horns curled like crowns of death, their razor-sharp teeth bared in snarls meant to intimidate, and their hellish eyes burned with the hunger for destruction. Clawed fingers gripped weapons dripping with fresh blood—massive swords, barbed axes, staffs crackling with dark energy—each one a twisted embodiment of pure, violent might.

  These were not mere soldiers. They were the remnants of the Demon King's once-invincible legion—beasts of slaughter, war incarnate.

  And yet… they hesitated.

  A deep, uneasy tension rippled through the army.

  Some demons gripped their weapons tightly, their clawed hands trembling as crimson ichor dripped from their wounds. Others, the more religiously devoted among them, clutched onto their insignias—the emblem of their god, Bethlehem—muttering frantic prayers under their breath. Their faith wavered, their desperation seeping into their words as they begged for divine intervention.

  And then, Prada moved.

  He took a single step forward.

  A sharp, collective inhale passed through the horde as their bodies tensed. One demon, towering and broad-shouldered, instinctively adjusted his stance, his grip tightening on his massive war axe. Blood ran freely down his arms from previous battles, but it wasn’t his injuries that made him tense—it was him.

  Prada took another step.

  More demons raised their guards. Some braced themselves, others flinched. A few, the weakest among them, hissed in an attempt to intimidate, their snarls carrying the weight of their fear. But intimidation was pointless. Their hissing fell flat against the vast emptiness that surrounded Prada.

  Then he moved faster.

  His stride turned into a walk.

  A moment later, it became a charge.

  And suddenly, the army of demons—the very creatures bred for war, the harbingers of ruin—faced a singular, undeniable truth:

  They would either die as cowards… or die with the fleeting honor of having faced Prada.

  The truth was undeniable—they never stood a chance.

  The moment Prada unsheathed his blade, The Glimmer of Hope, the air itself trembled.

  A flash of radiant steel cut through the darkened battlefield, its presence alone splitting the suffocating miasma of death that had plagued this land for centuries. The moment the weapon left its sheath, the war was already over.

  The demons roared, their cries of fury and devotion shaking the very ground beneath them. They charged forward, tens of thousands of them, a tidal wave of bloodlust and desperation. They would die for their Demon King. They must die for him.

  But in the span of a single heartbeat, the first wave—the very frontlines of this massive army—had already perished.

  In an instant, hundreds of demon heads were sent flying into the air, their grotesque features frozen in shock. Their bodies stood for a fraction of a second longer before they collapsed like lifeless husks, their blood painting the battlefield in crimson streaks. The wet thuds of headless corpses falling to the ground blended with the squelch of fresh entrails spilling onto the dirt.

  And yet, this did not stop the horde.

  Their numbers were overwhelming, their madness undeniable. Even as their brethren fell before them, they continued their reckless charge, trampling over their own dead in their desperate attempt to reach him.

  A towering demon wielding a jagged greatsword swung down with all his might, aiming to cleave Prada in half.

  But his blade never reached.

  With a single motion, The Glimmer of Hope cut through the demon’s weapon like it was made of air—no resistance, no struggle. The massive blade shattered into useless fragments, and before the demon could even comprehend his failure, Prada’s sword had already passed through him.

  His body split in two, perfectly severed from skull to waist.

  The two halves of his corpse collapsed, steaming with fresh blood.

  But Prada was already moving.

  Five more demons lunged at him, their claws and weapons ready to strike.

  He struck first.

  His blade severed the arm of one demon in a single stroke, but before the severed limb even hit the ground, Prada kicked it with such force that it exploded upon impact with another charging demon. The sheer concussive force sent out a shockwave, killing the ones closest and sending the ones farther away flying like ragdolls, their bodies tumbling through the air before crashing into the ruins.

  The rest of the demons pressed forward, their sheer numbers overwhelming even the destruction that had just unfolded before them.

  They swung their weapons wildly, hacking at the lone swordsman in a frenzy, but it was useless.

  The Glimmer of Hope danced in Prada’s hands, and where it moved, demons fell.

  Every swing of his blade was precise. Clean. Ruthless.

  Limbs were severed before they could strike. Blades were shattered before they could land. Spines were split before they could retreat.

  He did not waste movement. He did not waste energy.

  He simply cut.

  And in doing so, he reduced the army of the Demon King to nothing more than falling corpses and dying screams.

  Prada continued his relentless advance, weaving through the battlefield with impossible speed. He was not a warrior trudging through war—he was a force of nature, a cataclysm in human form. Every step, every movement carved a deeper path into the Demon King’s army, his very presence warping the tide of battle itself.

  The demons fought with everything they had, yet their efforts were meaningless. Prada crashed into them like a storm, his sheer momentum alone sending bodies flying upon impact. His blade carved through flesh and bone as easily as paper, and yet he never slowed, never faltered.

  Then, the earth trembled.

  A shadow loomed over him—a titanic demon, a towering colossus that dwarfed the battlefield itself. Its eyes burned with a fiery malice, its blood-red skin stretched over bulging muscle, veins pulsing with raw infernal energy. In its massive hands, it held a gargantuan battle-axe, a weapon so massive it could cleave mountains in half.

  With an earth-shattering roar, the Titan Demon swung its colossal axe down.

  The very air howled as the weapon fell, the sheer force of its descent enough to send shockwaves through the land. The mountains in the distance vibrated, their peaks crumbling under the sheer pressure of the impending strike.

  BOOOOOM!

  The axe struck the ground, unleashing a devastating shockwave that tore through the battlefield. Hundreds—no, thousands—of demons were obliterated instantly, their bodies reduced to red mist from the sheer impact. The ground fractured, massive cracks spider-webbing outward, swallowing more unfortunate demons in an avalanche of destruction.

  And yet…

  As the dust cleared, the Titan Demon’s glowing eyes widened in shock.

  Its massive axe, the weapon that had laid waste to armies, had struck nothing but dirt.

  And its own body…

  Was falling apart.

  Thin, perfect lines of light began tracing along its titanic form—dozens, hundreds of invisible cuts had already been made across its flesh, its bones, its very core.

  A second later, the creature’s entire body collapsed in on itself, sliced into thousands of pieces so cleanly that not even a drop of blood spilled before it hit the ground.

  And above it—above its corpse—stood Prada.

  He had already moved.

  With a single, effortless leap, he had used the Titan Demon’s very own body as a stepping stone, sprinting across its collapsing flesh. As the final remnants of the colossal beast fell, Prada launched himself into the sky, soaring high above the battlefield.

  But he was far from finished.

  Midair, his magic surged.

  The countless severed chunks of the Titan Demon’s body—the mountains of flesh, the slabs of muscle, the shattered bones—all began to rise with him. Prada extended his hand, his mana wrapping around each and every fragment of the colossal corpse.

  And then—he amplified them.

  With a thought, he boosted every single piece of flesh a thousandfold, saturating them with overwhelming destructive energy. Each fragment of the Titan Demon’s body now pulsed with unimaginable power, glowing like molten meteors in the night sky.

  And then—he sent them crashing down.

  BOOOOOOOOOM!!!

  The battlefield erupted.

  The sky rained devastation as countless colossal fragments struck the ground, each impact sending out explosions powerful enough to rival the strongest warheads of the modern era. The land trembled, entire sections of the battlefield vaporized in blinding, fiery eruptions. The sheer concussive force alone reduced thousands of demons into dust, their bodies annihilated before they could even register their deaths.

  The battlefield became a storm of destruction.

  The Demon King’s army, once a force of terror and domination, was now nothing in the face of Prada.

  He landed softly amidst the devastation, his blade still gleaming with untouched perfection. His golden eyes scanned the battlefield, now littered with smoldering craters and the remains of a force that had once threatened the world itself.

  And yet, not a single drop of sweat touched his brow.

  For this was not a battle.

  This was an execution.

  As the battlefield lay in utter ruin, the echoes of destruction still rippling through the land, a sound—light, almost playful—broke the silence.

  "Heheheh… Oh, my. Now this is a spectacle."

  A voice, smooth yet unsettling, coiled through the air like a whisper in the wind, laced with amusement. It did not belong to the dying, nor to the desperate—it was the voice of something outside of this battlefield. Something that belonged to the void itself.

  Then—movement.

  From the very depths of the blood-red sky, a shadow shifted. A presence peeked through the deep crimson abyss as though the world itself had torn open, revealing something that had always been watching.

  "Fascinating indeed… I didn’t expect you to eliminate them all so wonderfully…"

  A figure stepped out.

  At first glance, it resembled a humanoid, but the longer one stared, the less human it became. Its body was not of flesh but of deep, dark wood, its form appearing as though it had been sculpted from the roots of an ancient, accursed tree. The texture was eerily smooth, unnaturally polished, as if carved by something beyond mortal comprehension.

  And then—its eyes.

  Two realistic, blood-red orbs embedded in its wooden face, pulsating with a sinister glow, filled with something far more dangerous than mere malevolence. They did not burn with the mindless hatred of demons. They did not gleam with the pride of gods.

  No.

  These eyes were curious. Amused.

  Like a scholar observing an insect he had no intention of killing—yet.

  Then, one by one, twelve faintly glowing crimson lights ignited across its body. Each light pulsed in an intricate pattern, forming a grotesque symphony of radiance that flickered in harmony with its speech.

  "As expected… from the Murderer of the Demon King."

  The being chuckled, its voice reverberating unnaturally, as though the world itself twisted to make sense of its existence.

  And then—the sky itself trembled.

  The already-bloodied heavens ripped open further as something colossal emerged from the abyss. A presence so vast, so overwhelming, that even the lingering flames of Prada’s battlefield seemed to dim in response.

  A shadow, massive beyond reason, unfurled itself from the void.

  Then—wings.

  Enormous, otherworldly wings—scaled yet ethereal, black as the endless abyss yet shimmering with deep crimson veins—stretched outward. Each movement carried an unfathomable weight, as though the very air struggled to bear its existence.

  Then came the head.

  A colossal draconic visage, regal yet terrifying, pushed through the bleeding void, its burning amber eyes locking onto Prada.

  This was not a mere dragon.

  This was Valtrax.

  The Apex of Power.

  The Dracotour himself.

  His very breath sent ripples through the battlefield, warping reality itself as his gaze bore down on Prada. His presence was not merely overwhelming—it was monumental, the weight of his existence pressing upon the very foundation of the world.

  The battlefield, once filled with the roars of demons, was now silent.

  As if the world itself dared not breathe in the presence of these two.

  Bethlehem, the being of dark wood and glowing crimson, smiled wider, his glowing eyes locking onto Prada once more.

  "Now, shall we begin?"

  The battlefield, once consumed by war and the deafening cries of demons, had fallen into an unnatural silence. A silence filled with a tension so thick it threatened to suffocate the very air itself.

  And at the center of it all stood Prada.

  The light, emanating from an unseen force behind him, bathed his form in an almost ethereal glow. It did not belong to the fires of the battlefield nor the scorching breath of demons. It was an illumination that defied logic—one that made Prada appear less like a man and more like an unstoppable force of nature.

  Yet, this very radiance concealed his face in shadow, rendering him faceless—a silent executioner standing against the abyss itself.

  Bethlehem tilted his wooden head slightly, the eerie, lifelike crimson of his eyes narrowing in what could only be disappointment.

  "Oh? No words for me?"

  His voice slithered through the air, its smoothness laced with mock amusement, yet there was an undercurrent of something else—curiosity.

  "I see. im quite sure you have a grudge against demons. That’s quite racist, isn’t it?"

  A grin formed—or at least, something resembling one—as his wooden features contorted with twisted delight. Then came the chuckle, light and knowing, the kind that made the skin crawl.

  "But I must say… the way you stand there, cloaked in that holy light… I couldn't even tell if you were a hero."

  Then, Bethlehem laughed.

  A laughter that was neither joyous nor forced. It was genuine. Manic. The kind of laughter that belonged to an entity that had long since abandoned mortal comprehension of good and evil. It echoed through the battlefield like a song of madness, its sound stretching unnaturally, as if it belonged to something far greater than what stood before Prada.

  But the laughter was soon drowned out.

  The ground beneath them rumbled—not the light tremors of an approaching force, but a quake so vast, so overwhelming, that the earth itself wailed in agony.

  And then—impact.

  Valtrax stepped onto the battlefield.

  The sheer force of its arrival was cataclysmic. The moment its massive talons touched the blood-soaked earth, a shockwave erupted outward, sending thousands of demon corpses flying like scattered leaves in a storm.

  The tremor that followed was stronger than anything before. The once-mighty axe slam of the fallen titan demon—the one that had sent mountains quaking and laid waste to entire forces—now seemed pitiful.

  For the tremor Valtrax created did not merely shake the land.

  It broke it.

  Mountains collapsed. Entire ridges of rock crumbled under the sheer magnitude of its presence, as though the very world was unworthy of holding its weight. Cracks tore through the battlefield in chaotic patterns, splitting the land like fragile glass.

  Then—its full form emerged into the infernal air of the battlefield.

  A living calamity.

  It stood taller than any structure mankind had ever built, its colossal form rivaling the highest peaks. Its body, a maelstrom of molten magma, pulsed and twisted with heat so intense that the air around it wavered, distorting reality itself.

  But this was no ordinary magma.

  It was thousands of times hotter than any natural lava—a fire so pure and so powerful that it could melt enchanted steel in an instant. The deep, dark red hues of its molten veins pulsated with raw, primordial magic, each flicker a reminder that this creature was born from something far beyond mortal understanding.

  And then—its horns.

  Not simple spikes, not brutish protrusions.

  No—they were a crown.

  A majestic yet terrifying display of power, shaped like the very concept of dominion itself. The crown of an Apex Being, one who did not rule over mortals or even gods—but over the concept of strength itself.

  Its scales, each a fortress in their own right, gleamed like they were forged from the hardest materials in existence—not simply metal, not simply stone, but something beyond this world’s comprehension.

  Then—movement.

  It raised its head.

  Slowly. Deliberately.

  The simple act was enough to send yet another wave of force across the battlefield, pressing against Prada like the crushing weight of an unspoken challenge.

  And then, its wings.

  It extended them.

  Massive, eclipsing the battlefield, their sheer span casting an unnatural darkness upon the already hellish terrain.

  And Prada, for all his strength, for all his legend—was but a speck beneath them.

  Then—it roared.

  A sound so massive, so overwhelming, that it did not simply shake the battlefield—it reshaped it.

  The very air collapsed under its might.

  The sky trembled. The ground cracked apart further, as if the planet itself feared what had come upon it.

  From the depths of its searing jaws, it unleashed a storm of pure devastation.

  Molten lava, infused with raw magical energy, erupted forth.

  Not like a simple volcanic eruption—this was controlled, directed, weaponized. It did not simply burn—it melted reality itself, twisting the very laws of nature as it surged forward, consuming all in its path.

  Even the very flames of the battlefield, once thought unstoppable, wilted before its might.

  And yet, through it all—Prada remained still.

  He did not flinch. He did not raise his blade in defense.

  He merely stood there.

  Faceless. Silent. Unmoved.

  Bethlehem let out another laugh, softer this time, but filled with uncontainable excitement.

  "Marvelous. Truly, truly marvelous."

  The crimson glow in his body flickered with intrigue, as though he were savoring the tension, the sheer weight of the moment.

  Then, he took a step forward.

  "Now, Prada… are you going to remain silent even now?"

  Another chuckle.

  "Or shall we see if the Glimmer of Hope still shines in the face of the abyss?"

  The battlefield held its breath.

  And Prada, standing before the Apex of Power and the Embodiment of Madness, finally moved.

  "Come on, Prada. Say something. You must be at lea—"

  Bethlehem's words were abruptly, violently cut off—quite literally.

  A sickening sound filled the battlefield—a sound that did not belong to steel meeting flesh, nor the rupture of bone under pressure. It was absolute silence, as though the very concept of sound itself had been erased in that singular moment.

  And then—Valtrax, the Apex of Power, was torn apart.

  The colossal behemoth, whose very presence had shattered mountains and reshaped the battlefield, was reduced to nothing but severed chunks of its once-mighty form.

  The sight was so sudden, so impossible, that even Bethlehem—an entity beyond mortal comprehension—stiffened.

  For the first time, his eyes, those deep, unnatural crimson orbs, widened.

  "Wha—?"

  But there was no time to process, no time to react.

  For from the gaping void of the battlefield, something worse emerged.

  The Roots of Plagiarism

  Black, charred roots—corrupted beyond recognition—erupted from the very fabric of existence.

  They slithered like living things, like snakes from a pit—but these were no mere tendrils.

  They were hands.

  Hundreds, thousands of rotting hands, twisted and malformed, crawled out of the abyss. Each one clawing, grasping, as though dragging something from the depths of hell itself.

  Then—they took shape.

  The figures that rose from the roots were warriors—or at least, they had once been.

  Rotten. Distorted. Their forms warped and hollowed, their faces unrecognizable, as though scraped away and redrawn by an unholy force.

  And yet—they held weapons.

  Weapons that bore the presence of something Prada knew all too well.

  For when Prada’s blade clashed against the first Plagiarist Warrior—

  —The Glimmer of Hope changed.

  No. It wasn’t that it changed.

  It was copied.

  A perfect, flawless imitation.

  As if his very existence had been stolen and rewritten.

  And in that instant, every single warrior’s weapon shifted.

  A hundred. A thousand.

  A thousand copies of Glimmer of Hope.

  Bethlehem's expression twisted, not in amusement, not in intrigue—but in genuine disturbance.

  "Fascinating… yet… unacceptable."

  But Prada?

  He did not flinch.

  As the stolen blades rained down upon him, as the battlefield writhed under the will of these cursed roots, he moved.

  A single step, precise and sharp—

  And in an instant, he wove through the assault.

  Each plagiarized blade swung with perfect synchronization, their movements eerily flawless, as though drawn from Prada’s own battle experience.

  But—it wasn’t enough.

  Prada blocked, parried, slashed—each movement flawless, each motion unnatural in its fluidity, as if he were cutting through the very concept of imitation itself.

  The roots lashed at him from below, black tendrils that sought only to touch, to steal, to take.

  But even they could not reach him.

  Prada moved like a phantom, stepping between the gaps of reality itself, his blade carving through the false warriors like a scalpel through flesh.

  And yet—it was far from over.

  For even as Prada danced through the storm of counterfeits, even as the battlefield roared with the clash of stolen blades, a presence loomed above him—

  Bethlehem’s grin widened as he assessed Prada, momentarily convinced that the rumors had exaggerated his strength. "You actually caught me by surprise," he admitted, his laughter dripping with menace. "But a little trick like that won’t happen again!"

  As his laughter echoed through the battlefield, the cursed, deep-black wood entwined itself around his corrupted blade—a sinister mockery of what was once the Glimmer of Hope. Crimson veins pulsed violently across its surface, infesting the weapon with malevolent energy, as if feeding off the very essence of despair.

  With a sudden burst of speed, Bethlehem lunged forward, his cursed blade carving through the air with a distorted hum. Prada met his charge head-on, his movements a perfect blend of offense and defense—blocking, slashing, and evading with an almost supernatural precision. Bethlehem matched him strike for strike, their blades clashing in a violent symphony of steel and corruption, sparks dancing with every collision.

  The battlefield was a blur of motion—Prada sidestepping the creeping roots of Plagiarism that lashed out from the ground like hungry serpents, while Bethlehem maneuvered aggressively, forcing Prada on the defensive. But in a single misstep—a brief moment of overextension—Bethlehem left himself open.

  Prada seized the opportunity in a heartbeat. His blade cleaved through Bethlehem’s torso with staggering force, carving deep into flesh and armor alike. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the battlefield, blood spraying across the corrupted terrain. Bethlehem staggered, his grin faltering for just a moment as pain registered.

  Yet before he could recover, Prada’s blade redirected with inhuman speed, slicing through the air behind Bethlehem. The sheer force of the swing compressed the air itself, unleashing a devastating, unintentional air slash—a razor-sharp burst of wind that obliterated everything in its wake. Trees splintered, corrupted roots were shredded, and even the approaching Plagiarist Warriors—summoned to Bethlehem’s aid—were caught in the violent tempest, their bodies torn apart before they could intervene.

  Bethlehem, now slightly agitated, staggered backward, gripping his wounded torso. But even as blood trickled from the deep gash, he forced himself to maintain his cocky demeanor. He let out a breathless chuckle, flashing Prada a grin laced with both amusement and defiance.

  "Y’know… that actually hurt," he admitted, voice strained but still laced with arrogance. "Just a tincy wincy bit."

  His laughter echoed once more, but there was now an undeniable hint of caution behind his eyes.

  Bethlehem’s wooden body began to mend itself, dark roots writhing and twisting as they stitched his wounds back together. The corrupted veins pulsed like a heartbeat, feeding his form with renewed vigor. Above him, the Roots of Plagiarism surged skyward, stretching and weaving into an intricate, otherworldly tapestry. Within moments, the roots bore their twisted fruit—an entire army of perfect copies.

  Each figure materialized with eerie precision, exact replicas of legendary warriors, high-ranking soldiers, elite adventurers, and mercenaries from across time. Their weapons gleamed ominously—greatswords crackled with elemental fury, bows hummed with condensed mana, and staves pulsed with raw arcane energy. From master swordsmen to grand archmages, each clone embodied their original counterpart’s full strength, but with one terrifying advantage: they felt no fear.

  Bethlehem, still grinning, raised his wooden hand and gave a playful wave. "Bye-bye~," he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery.

  At his command, the army of Plagiarism unleashed their devastating barrage. The air trembled as an unrelenting storm of spells and projectiles filled the sky—arcane missiles, fire-laced arrows, compressed wind blades, and chaotic lightning bolts rained down like an apocalyptic tempest. The sheer volume of attacks mirrored a war machine unleashing an endless cascade of rockets and explosives, the battlefield alight with streaking trails of destruction.

  Yet, Prada did not waver.

  His stance remained firm, his eyes locked onto the incoming onslaught with unshaken resolve. Then, in an instant—he moved.

  Blades flashed, leaving behind streaks of silver and blue. Prada's sword cleaved through the oncoming storm with ungodly speed, his movements an intricate dance of slashes, parries, and counters. Each swing carried such precision that spells were intercepted mid-flight, detonating harmlessly in the air or redirected into the ground. His strikes were so fast that even the mana-infused air around his blade reacted violently, warping and pulsing with sheer force.

  Then, something unprecedented happened.

  The very mana Prada exuded began to manifest into an unintended protective barrier—a shimmering, translucent field of raw energy that formed around him as he moved. Each time his sword clashed against magic, the mana from his attacks resonated, layering over itself like an expanding, self-replenishing shield. It was not an ability he consciously activated—it was simply the byproduct of his overwhelming speed and precision.

  Arrows shattered before reaching him, fireballs exploded into harmless embers, and lightning bolts fizzled into sparks upon contact with the growing field of protective energy.

  Prada’s counterattack had not even begun, yet Bethlehem's army was already faltering.

  And when the storm of magic finally began to subside, Prada still stood—untouched, his blade glowing ominously, radiating with raw mana that was never meant to be controlled.

  Prada’s eyes gleamed with razor-sharp focus as he sensed the moment of absolute opportunity. The battlefield crackled with volatile energy—hundreds of spells still suspended mid-air, hurtling toward him with destructive force. Yet, in that split second, he saw the flaw in Bethlehem’s relentless assault.

  With an exhale, Prada tightened his grip around his blade, channeling an immense surge of mana into its core. The very air around him trembled, the ground beneath his feet fracturing under the weight of his power. His muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, and then—

  He swung.

  The moment his blade sliced through the air, the battlefield erupted in a cataclysmic chain reaction. Prada's sword carved through the incoming barrage of spells with perfect precision, intercepting their trajectories and absorbing their raw magical essence. The very fabric of mana warped violently around the slash, condensing the stolen energy into a single, monstrous wave of destruction.

  A blinding arc of light, infused with every intercepted spell, surged forward. But it did not simply deflect the attacks—it twisted them, amplified them. Prada's overwhelming mana did not merely return the spells; it magnified them a thousandfold, turning Bethlehem’s own devastating assault into a weapon beyond comprehension.

  The very sky ignited.

  BOOOOOOOM!

  The amplified barrage detonated upon impact with Bethlehem’s army, igniting a chain explosion that consumed everything in a blinding inferno. The Plagiarist Warriors, once proud copies of legendary figures, stood no chance. Their forms were instantly shredded, their own magic turned against them in an unstoppable tidal wave of annihilation.

  The battlefield became a storm of chaos—shockwaves ruptured the earth, carving deep trenches into the ground, while compressed mana spiraled outward, leveling entire structures in the distance. The sheer force of the explosion distorted the air itself, creating an ear-splitting roar that echoed for miles.

  Bethlehem, despite his formidable nature, was not spared.

  The moment the shockwave struck him, his wooden body splintered under the sheer force, cracks racing along his limbs and torso as he was sent hurtling through the sky like a broken comet. His vision blurred as he crashed through countless layers of debris, shattering against jagged rock and twisted roots before finally skidding across the ruined battlefield in a violent tumble.

  For a moment, silence reigned. Smoke curled from the decimated terrain, the scent of burning mana thick in the air. The ground was unrecognizable—what was once a battlefield had been

  obliterated beyond recognition.

  Then, from the dust and ruin, movement.

  Bethlehem coughed, his form battered but far from broken. His wooden limbs reattached almost instantly, the twisted, dark roots of Plagiarism surging to repair the damage. With an almost casual motion, he brushed the dust from his shoulder, his grin still plastered across his face.

  "Heh…" He chuckled, rolling his shoulders as though he had simply been pushed rather than nearly obliterated. His crimson-infested blade pulsed, feeding off the residual destruction in the air.

  "You really don’t hold back, do ya?"

  Though his voice carried its usual playful arrogance, there was now a glint of caution behind his mischievous eyes.

  As the ground trembled violently, deep fractures splitting across the battlefield as an ominous, guttural grumbling echoed through the air. The very earth groaned under an immense, unfathomable weight, each tremor sending jagged cracks racing across the terrain. Dust and debris rose in thick clouds, obscuring the sky as the rhythmic thud… thud… thud… of something colossal stirred beneath the surface.

  Then, with an earsplitting rupture, the land buckled. Chasms yawned open, entire slabs of stone and earth shattered like fragile glass as a titanic presence rose from its ancient slumber. A shadow, so vast it swallowed the battlefield in darkness, loomed over everything.

  A presence that was far from done.

  The Apex Awakens

  Valtrax was not dead.

  The severed fragments of its massive body, the pieces that had once formed its mighty figure, had not fallen like ordinary flesh.

  They had melted.

  Each severed limb, each cleaved scale—had liquefied into molten rivers, flowing back toward the core of the beast.

  And now, at its center, Valtrax’s severed maw began to reform—wider, larger.

  "T?H?I?S?.?..? W?O?N?'?T?.?.?.? ?S?A?T?I?S?F?Y? ?M?E?.?"?

  The voice of the Apex was no longer a mere roar.

  It was words twisted by fire, a language of destruction given form.

  And then—its jaws opened.

  The hellish heat, already unbearable, multiplied a thousandfold.

  A sphere began to form—a mass of pure, condensed magma, swirling with mana so dense that even the air trembled under its weight.

  This was not an attack.

  This was an execution.

  The battlefield itself bent around it, the land cracking apart, unable to withstand the pressure of its existence.

  A single shot—and everything would be undone.

  Bethlehem’s red eyes flickered—watching. Waiting.

  "Well now… let’s see how you handle this, Glimmer of Hope."

  The world stood still.

  And Prada—silent as ever—gripped his blade.

  The real one.

  And for the first time—he moved forward.

  A shift in the heavens.

  A moment so profound that existence itself recognized it.

  For the first time in untold eons, a third moon rose into the sky, its dark and mystical glow painting the battlefield in an eerie, celestial light.

  As if summoned by Prada himself.

  And then—the stars moved.

  A phenomenon unseen by mortal or divine eyes alike.

  The stars—thousands, millions—began to align, drawn together into a perfect geometric formation. A triangle.

  Not just any triangle.

  One that reflected Prada’s own eyes.

  A celestial omen. A mirrored fate.

  The battlefield, once consumed by the howling winds of war, fell into a silence so heavy, so absolute, that even the breath of the cosmos seemed to halt in anticipation.

  The moon’s light descended upon Prada, casting his faceless form into shadow—

  But within that darkness…

  His eyes were revealed.

  And the blade—The Glimmer of Hope—shined.

  Not with the gleam of steel, nor with the shimmer of mere magic—but with something far beyond mortal comprehension.

  A light unbound by time. A brilliance capable of severing all fate.

  Then, for the first time in his life—

  Prada tried.

  With effort.

  With will.

  And in a voice barely above a whisper—yet louder than all creation—he spoke:

  “Quarter Moon Slash.”

  A command. A decree.

  And the heavens obeyed.

  The four great stars, the ones that had encircled the Third Moon, responded instantly—

  And with speed greater than light itself, they plunged toward The Glimmer of Hope.

  Time itself could not perceive their motion.

  Reality could not contain their descent.

  The stars, gods among celestial bodies, did not merely empower the blade—

  They became it.

  A single swing.

  And the universe split apart.

  The slash did not move through the battlefield.

  The battlefield was erased.

  Planets, great and small—shattered.

  Solar winds, cosmic storms—scattered.

  The very concept of distance, of space, of existence itself—was undone in the wake of this single strike.

  A ripple so vast, so utterly consuming, that even the laws of the universe collapsed beneath it.

  The explosion that followed was not one of fire, nor energy.

  It was the detonation of all things that had once been.

  A brilliance that made even the sun's might seem like a flickering ember.

  A force not of destruction—but of absolute severance.

  Yet—

  At the height of annihilation—

  It all snapped back.

  Not through time.

  Not through space.

  But through Prada himself.

  The shattered planets, the cosmic destruction—reversed.

  Not as though undone, not as though it had never happened—

  But as though the universe had simply been commanded to return.

  And when it did—

  Prada still stood.

  Blade in hand.

  Unmoved.

  Untouched.

  And before him—

  Bethlehem stood trembling.

  His deep-red eyes, once filled with mockery, with twisted delight, were now wide.

  Not with fascination.

  Not with curiosity.

  But with fear.

  Pure, absolute, primal fear.

  His wooden body quivered, cracks spreading across it like a disease—his hands clenched at his chest, as though trying to grasp something that no longer existed.

  And then, in a voice so weak, so uncharacteristically small, he whispered:

  "I-I felt that."

  His breathing was ragged, unsteady, as though something fundamental within him had changed.

  His hands shook. His voice wavered.

  "What… was that?"

  His gaze darted toward Prada—no longer as a foe.

  No longer as a mere opponent.

  But as something far beyond his comprehension.

  "Was that… pain?"

  For the first time, Bethlehem—a being of ancient power, a demon beyond understanding—had felt something he never believed possible.

  True, undeniable pain.

  And beyond him—the corpse of Valtrax remained.

  Even after facing a multi-planetary annihilation, even after witnessing a slash that tore through the very fabric of existence, the great Apex of Power still lay, unbroken.

  For the first time in eternity—

  The battlefield was silent.

  The air around Bethlehem grew stifling as cracks began to appear along his body—slow at first, like the splitting of bark in the winter cold, but quickly spreading, like the eruption of long-hidden fractures within ancient stone.

  His form, once sleek and proud, now looked fractured, as if the very essence of his being was crumbling under the weight of what had just transpired. Shaking hands, now trembling from some inner devastation, reached out as if to steady himself, but they only further cracked the surface of his body. The wood that once looked so refined, so unyielding, now looked splintered, like an old, weathered tree on the verge of falling. His feet shifted, pressing heavily into the ground as if he sought escape from the paralyzing grip of the terror that had lodged itself within his heart.

  Bethlehem's breath was shallow, ragged—he tried to walk, but each step was unsteady, as if his limbs no longer obeyed his will. Cracks snaked along the floor beneath him, as if the very ground itself was rebelling against his presence. His eyes, once filled with mocking delight, now glowed faintly with fear, their deep crimson hue dull and flickering like the final embers of a dying fire.

  "I… I can’t…"

  His voice cracked like the brittle wood of a broken branch, each syllable barely making it past his lips. His once boasting arrogance now vanished, replaced with a raw vulnerability that no one, not even Prada, had seen from him before. His form trembled in the very presence of Prada’s power, the intensity of which he had clearly underestimated.

  A moment of clarity washed over him. It wasn’t just the immense strength Prada had displayed—it was the overwhelming force of will. Prada wasn’t merely a being of power; he was a force of existence itself, a being so far beyond Bethlehem’s comprehension that the very idea of standing before him had become a nightmare made real.

  Another crack, deeper this time, ran from his shoulder to his waist as his movements slowed, the joints of his body grinding together in a dissonant screech. He clutched at his chest, the once smooth wood now rough and splintered like dry bark torn by a storm. Every attempt to move only made him more unstable, as though the foundation of his very being had been fractured beyond repair.

  "I have to leave…"

  His eyes darted toward the dark void from which he emerged, the gateway back to his realm. It had once seemed like an escape, a place of power. Now, it felt like an insurmountable distance, a place far too far to reach. His legs quivered beneath him as he stumbled in the direction of the portal, but each step felt like dragging a mountain behind him, the sheer weight of Prada’s presence holding him in place.

  Cracks spread across his entire body now, and with each fracture, the once unyielding surface of his form gave way to an unrecognizable, unstable shell. His armor, his pride, the very thing that defined him, was unraveling. And with it, his confidence. His authority. The certainty that once burned brightly in his heart was now a distant flicker of a long-dead flame.

  "No..." Bethlehem’s voice faltered, barely a whisper now. The cracks began to crawl up his neck, splitting his face as the very image of himself began to fracture into something unholy. His features distorted and splintered, bits of wooden flesh falling away as he struggled, desperately trying to hold onto his form. But it was all in vain.

  Every fiber of his being screamed for escape. Escape from Prada. Escape from this nightmare. Yet, with each passing moment, the earth-shattering reality of his defeat became more and more apparent. The cracks spread wider, the world around him closing in as the ground beneath his feet seemed to collapse into the void of nothingness.

  And with a final, desperate snap, Bethlehem's form began to crumble—wooden shards scattering in every direction, a broken being, no longer standing tall but falling apart in the wake of his own fear.

  As the cracks tore him asunder, his final thought, an utterance of disbelief, echoed in the air:

  "I was never supposed to fall like this…"

  "Bethlehem."

  The name slipped from Prada’s lips, as if the very air knew it, resonating with a weight that made the word hang in the air, heavy and ominous. It echoed with a sense of knowing, as though Prada had seen the very soul of Bethlehem, understood the foundation of his being, and had anticipated his every move long before the confrontation began. The light that covered Prada’s face flickered and danced in such a way that it seemed to stretch time, bending the shadows around him, emphasizing the ethereal distance between himself and the demon who now trembled before him.

  Bethlehem, once so confident, so cocky in his power, now found himself shuddering under the weight of that simple word. Fear curled at the edges of his mind, sinking into his chest like a leaden weight. The air around him had grown chilly, suffocating, and his breath came in quick, shallow gasps as he instinctively began to back away, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  "W-what did you say...?" Bethlehem stammered, his voice shaking. He couldn’t look away from Prada, whose form radiated an unnatural aura—an unearthly light that seemed to shift and pulsate with ominous intent, casting shadows that danced across the ground like ghosts. Every inch of space between them felt like a vast chasm, a void that could swallow him whole with but a single step.

  Prada didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. His gaze remained steady, unwavering, like the stillness before a storm, the quiet before the earthquake. His presence alone was a force, a pull so strong that Bethlehem could feel it seeping into his bones, draining him of any defiance he once had. Prada’s voice—low, cold, and final—cut through the tension like a knife.

  "Were you even prepared for me?"

  The words carried a strange weight, not of accusation, but of inevitability—a question that Bethlehem could not answer. The truth of the matter was clear: He had never, not for a single moment, truly understood the force that stood before him. He had underestimated Prada—his power, his will—and now the cracks in his composure were shattering him from the inside out.

  Bethlehem’s mind raced, scrambling for a way out. His body moved involuntarily as he crawled toward the one source of potential salvation—Valtrax’s fallen body. His fingers dug into the ground, desperately clutching at the fragments of Valtrax’s immense form, seeking the one thing he believed could offer him a second chance. But as he neared the dragon’s corpse, his hands trembling, something seemed to shift—something deep and unsettling—within the air around them.

  The roots of Plagiarism, dark and twisted, began to sprout and grow, crawling from the earth like ancient serpents. They slithered over Valtrax’s remains, burrowing into the dragon’s massive carcass with a force that threatened to crush the bones. Bethlehem’s breath hitched in his throat as the roots wrapped themselves around Valtrax’s lifeless form, digging deeper into the charred remains of the powerful dragon.

  "Merge with me..." Bethlehem whispered, his voice trembling, more to himself than to anyone else. It was a desperate plea, a final attempt at power, an effort to bind himself to the once mighty dragon’s essence—whatever power Valtrax had once held, Bethlehem would now try to siphon it for himself, willing to merge with the formless dragon to escape the destruction that now loomed over him.

  As the roots took full control, they began to weave themselves into the flesh of Valtrax’s corpse. The dragon’s body, once still and unmoving, now shuddered, its broken limbs twitching under the strain of the roots that burrowed deep into its very soul. The air thickened, and a strange vibration pulsed through the ground as Valtrax’s body began to shift, its massive bones creaking and groaning under the power of the roots merging with its form.

  Bethlehem’s own body began to change as well. His wooden skin started to split open, the cracks deepening as he was pulled into the dragon’s massive frame. His arms, once slender and elegant, now grew jagged and distorted, merging with the dragon’s massive limbs. His eyes, once glowing with arrogance, now shone with desperation—crimson and frantic—as his consciousness slowly began to meld with the ancient power of Valtrax.

  The transformation was violent. The sound of cracking, splintering wood filled the air, as Bethlehem's form began to warp into something far more monstrous. The roots had not only claimed Valtrax’s body but were now pulling Bethlehem deeper into the dragon’s essence, forcing him to become one with the dead creature. He could feel his will slipping, his own identity blurring as the overwhelming power of the dragon’s form began to surge within him.

  Bethlehem’s mouth opened in a silent scream, but no words came out. His voice had been consumed by the terrifying reality of his own transformation. What was once Bethlehem—the demon made of dark, twisted wood—was now merging with a being of such raw, destructive power, a creature that had once been a force of nature in its own right.

  The fusion was complete.

  Bethlehem’s form stood tall once again, but it was no longer wood—it was something far darker. Dark magma surged beneath the scales of the reformed Valtrax, but Bethlehem's eyes, now the eyes of a hybrid being, flickered with a chaotic fire. His body had merged seamlessly with the once-powerful dragon’s, but it was clear that this new form was far more than just an amalgamation of flesh.

  It was a being that sought not only power but control.

  A twisted fusion of flesh and power, no longer Bethlehem, but not entirely Valtrax either.

  And as the final echo of his previous form dissipated, Bethlehem—now in the form of this monstrous dragon hybrid—turned his gaze back toward Prada. The weight of this new existence bore down on him, but still, that flicker of fear remained. Fear of the one who had broken him.

  He opened his mouth, the dragon's maw now filled with a dangerous promise, yet all that came out was a low, primal growl. He didn’t speak—he couldn’t. He could only hope that the power of this monstrous union would be enough to face the force that had already shattered him.

  Prada stood, a silent witness to the transformation, his shadow still cutting through the battlefield like a looming specter, untouched and unyielding.

  Prada’s voice, calm and unwavering, cut through the charged air like a knife.

  "I'll give you a chance, Bethlehem. Do you wish to continue onwards, or will you be sealed?"

  The question hung in the air, its weight pressing down on the battlefield like the silence before a storm. Prada’s stance remained unmovable, his presence unwavering, the light still haloing his face, casting a shadow so deep that Bethlehem could feel it creeping over him, almost suffocating him. There was no malice in Prada’s words, no anger, only an unspoken authority that rang louder than any battle cry. He wasn’t offering mercy. He wasn’t offering peace. He was simply offering a choice, and it was the last choice Bethlehem would ever make.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Bethlehem—now in the form of the hybrid dragon, Valtrax’s vast and terrifying body—stood still for a moment, the intense heat of his newly fused form radiating out in waves. The magma-like veins under his dark, molten scales seemed to pulse with raw power, yet the fear that gnawed at his core overshadowed even that power. The fusion of his essence with Valtrax’s had given him strength, yes, but it had also bound him in ways he could not fully understand. He had lost his identity, his form now a twisted conglomeration of flesh and fire, a beast of unimaginable power that he could no longer control fully. The dread of Prada, of the force standing before him, weighed heavier than the magma coursing through his veins.

  The roots, still sprouting from his body, seemed to twitch and move on their own as if responding to the fear that was flooding Bethlehem’s now fractured consciousness. His eyes—no longer Bethlehem’s familiar red but now swirling with molten orange—flickered with panic. The demon’s will, once strong and defiant, was now a wisp of smoke, drowning under the crushing power of Prada’s presence.

  "Very well," Bethlehem finally muttered, his voice low and strained, like a reluctant agreement to an inevitable fate. The words tasted like ash, but they were spoken nonetheless. He had no other choice. His body, his mind, his very soul had been broken by Prada. There was no pride left in him, no arrogance. Only the cold truth of his defeat. He had seen the power in Prada’s eyes, and there was no denying it.

  At his acceptance, the roots of Plagiarism began to pulse with new energy, almost as if they recognized Bethlehem’s submission. They slithered across the ground, stretching and curling with unnatural grace, wrapping around the massive form of Valtrax, their tendrils digging deep into the molten scales that had once been a symbol of supreme power.

  The roots twisted, constricting the dragon’s massive frame. A low, rumbling sound emanated from Bethlehem's fused body as the roots began their work. They dug deeper, pulling out excess energy, stripping away the unnecessary layers of Valtrax’s body—excess mass, the fiery veins, the molten magma that had once made him a colossus of destruction. The once-imposing presence of the beast began to shrink, the form of Valtrax diminishing before Prada’s silent command.

  With each pull, the roots siphoned away the excess—magma flowed like rivers of molten metal, evaporating in the scorching air. The dragon’s body began to shrink, the immense size that had once loomed over the battlefield now starting to lose its intimidating stature. Magma boiled away, the powerful mana that had fueled his monstrous form receding. Bethlehem’s body, bound by the roots, was being purged, the unnecessary weight, fire, and power slowly removed, leaving only a more manageable size behind.

  The transformation was gradual, yet undeniably shocking. Chunks of rock and molten scales shattered and fell away, disintegrating into the air as the roots pulled them deeper into the earth. The heat that had once radiated from Bethlehem’s body was dampened, the flames of power receding like the tide pulling back from a shore.

  The magnitude of the change was staggering. From a creature that once had the size of a skyscraper, Bethlehem was now reduced to a form more humanoid and compact. He stood now at a towering height—still immense by mortal standards, but now no longer an uncontrollable force of nature. The once powerful, terrifying figure of Valtrax was now a mere shadow of its former self, weakened and reshaped.

  As the last remnants of unnecessary power were stripped away, the roots began to retreat. The ground trembled once more, but this time not from the roar of destruction, but from the aftershocks of restraint. Bethlehem, now in this new, smaller form, stood there, feeling the weight of his diminished strength.

  The roots that had once clung to him, holding him in place, finally receded, leaving him standing in silence before Prada, who remained unmoved, a silent witness to the entire transformation.

  Bethlehem’s body, no longer bathed in molten lava, felt cold, almost empty in comparison to the overwhelming heat of the fusion. He looked up at Prada, his eyes still burning with a fractured mix of fear and defiance, yet the flame had waned. The fear was too strong, too overwhelming.

  He had been sealed—not by force, but by choice, a reluctant surrender to the inevitable. He no longer had the power to continue, and the roots of Plagiarism had taken from him what he had hoped to wield. Now, he stood broken, no longer the mighty dragon, but something far less—an empty vessel of what had once been.

  "Begone."

  Prada's voice rang through the battlefield, calm yet absolute. The word carried no anger, no arrogance—only finality. In that instant, Bethlehem, now merged with Valtrax’s form, felt an overwhelming force pulling at his very existence. It was not an explosion, nor a slash, nor a spell—just the sheer weight of Prada’s will manifesting into reality.

  A pulse of silent energy rippled through the air, and Bethlehem simply vanished. No dramatic cries, no struggle—only the space where he once stood, now eerily vacant, as if the universe itself had erased him without resistance.

  Prada turned, walking away without a glance back. The battlefield, once roaring with demonic rage, now stood in absolute silence. The few remaining embers of war flickered feebly, their glow paling against the celestial event above.

  The Third Moon, which had illuminated the heavens like a divine eye watching over the world, now faded. The four stars that once aligned with it scattered back into the cosmic void, their sacred geometry undone. The sky, which had borne witness to the battle, returned to its natural, star-speckled vastness, as if the presence of that divine entity had never been there at all.

  And as Prada stepped forward, his shadow stretching far behind him, the world slowly exhaled. The nightmare had ended.

  Leon, Atruis, and Selene stood atop the distant cliff, their eyes wide, their bodies frozen in sheer disbelief at the spectacle they had just witnessed. The battlefield far below—once a chaotic, hellish warzone filled with tens of thousands of raging demons—was now nothing but silence, eerie and absolute. The very air felt different, lighter yet unnerving, as if the world itself had just barely survived something beyond comprehension.

  Leon’s mouth hung slightly open, his breath caught in his throat. His mind struggled to process what he had seen—Prada had erased an army, annihilated a legendary dragon, and forced a demon lord into submission, all with an effortless grace that defied reason. His heart pounded in his chest, not out of fear, but out of sheer exhilaration. He had known Prada was strong, but this? This was something else entirely.

  Atruis clenched his fists, his normally composed expression betraying hints of awe and frustration. "That power…" he muttered under his breath. His warrior’s instincts screamed at him—how could something like that even be countered? How does one fight against an existence so absolute? His grip tightened on his weapon, but he quickly released it, knowing deep down that what he had just seen was beyond any conventional battle.

  Selene, usually poised and calm, could only stare. Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed them against her chest, feeling the rapid rhythm of her heartbeat. Her silver eyes reflected the now-quiet battlefield, where only Prada remained, his lone figure walking away as if none of it had mattered. She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper.

  "Did… did he just erase Bethlehem?"

  Leon exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. “No… He let him choose. And Bethlehem chose to be sealed rather than face him any longer.”

  A long silence followed, the only sound being the distant wind howling across the desolate ruins. The three warriors, powerful in their own right, had just borne witness to an event that felt less like a battle and more like an act of divine judgment.

  For the first time in a long time, they felt truly small.

  As Atruis exhaled deeply, still trying to steady himself after witnessing the sheer scale of destruction Prada had wrought upon the battlefield. He shook his head, his expression caught between admiration and disbelief.

  "But this… this is the power of Prada," he muttered, his voice almost reverent. "I didn’t expect it at all. It was like watching a grand swordsman perform on a theater stage… a spectacle beyond anything I could have imagined."

  Leon finally let out a small, breathless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah… ‘spectacle’ is one way to put it."

  But before any of them could say more, a voice—calm, steady, yet carrying an undeniable weight—spoke from directly behind them.

  "I’m glad you enjoyed it."

  Their bodies tensed instantly.

  They turned—too late.

  Prada stood right behind them.

  Not a single sound, not a whisper of movement had given away his approach. One moment, he had been walking alone across the ruins of his conquest, and the next, he was here, standing among them as if he had always been there.

  He wore a calm, almost friendly smile, as if he had not just rewritten the landscape with a single stroke of his blade. His silver eyes—those eyes that had glowed like the third moon itself—now studied the trio with quiet curiosity, scanning their faces as though he could read their thoughts.

  "But you shouldn’t be here in the first place," Prada continued, his voice remaining gentle yet firm. "You do realize how dangerous that was?"

  His smile didn’t waver, but something in the way his gaze flickered over them—calculated, assessing—sent a chill down their spines.

  "I could have hurt you."

  Selene stiffened slightly, her heart skipping a beat at the sheer certainty in his tone. He didn’t say it as a threat. There was no arrogance, no boasting—just the simple, absolute truth.

  They had no place here.

  They had just trespassed into something far beyond their comprehension.

  Leon swallowed hard, his usual cocky demeanor dampened by the sheer presence of Prada. His instincts screamed at him—this man wasn’t just strong; he was something else entirely. Something that shouldn’t be human.

  Atruis, despite his initial awe, quickly regained his composure. He took a small step forward, clearing his throat. "We are aware of the dangers, Prada. But witnessing your battle… it was more than just power—it was mastery. Precision. Control."

  Selene, still watching Prada carefully, finally spoke. "And yet, even with all of that… you hesitate."

  Prada’s silver eyes turned toward her.

  For a brief moment, silence filled the scorched wasteland around them. The flames that still flickered in the distance crackled softly, the wind carrying embers through the air like dying stars.

  "Hesitate?" Prada repeated, tilting his head slightly.

  Selene nodded, her crimson eyes never leaving his. "Yes. You had the power to erase Bethlehem and Valtrax completely. To end them without hesitation. Yet you offered a choice."

  Leon exhaled sharply, glancing at her. "Selene…"

  But she wasn’t done. "Why?"

  Prada remained still for a moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he closed his eyes.

  "Power without restraint is meaningless."

  His words carried no arrogance, no sense of self-importance—only clarity.

  He opened his eyes again, and the weight behind them sent a shiver down Selene’s spine.

  "I don’t need to erase everything in my path simply because I can. The moment you become a force of destruction with no purpose… you become no better than the chaos you fight against."

  Leon scoffed, crossing his arms. "So what, you’re sayin’ mercy is your principle?"

  Prada chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No. Mercy is given to those who deserve it. What I gave Bethlehem wasn’t mercy… it was a chance. A chance to submit, to choose a different path."

  He looked over the battlefield, where the remnants of his battle still smoldered.

  "If I must, I will become destruction. But only when necessary."

  The trio exchanged glances.

  They had come here expecting to see a warrior—a swordsman, a living legend.

  But what stood before them wasn’t just a swordsman.

  It was something far greater.

  Prada turned away, his coat shifting slightly with the motion. "Now that you’ve seen what you wanted, I suggest you leave." His tone softened. "This place is no longer meant for spectators."

  Without another word, he began to walk, his silhouette fading into the ruins of his own creation, the light from the dying flames casting his figure in an eerie, almost celestial glow.

  And as the third moon above slowly disappeared, Leon, Atruis, and Selene realized something.

  They had just stood in the presence of a man who could have ended everything.

  Yet, he chose not to.

  As the flames of battle continued to flicker in the distance, the three warriors—Leon, Atruis, and Selene—felt an undeniable weight settle upon them. The battlefield was still thick with the remnants of raw power, the air trembling with the aftershock of Prada’s overwhelming might.

  And yet, despite the destruction, despite the cosmic devastation they had just witnessed, they knelt.

  Leon, a Magnus himself—one of the most powerful warriors of his generation—lowered his head, swallowing his pride as he paid respects to the man who stood before them. His ancestors had spoken of Prada as legend, a force that reshaped history. But standing in his presence now, Leon understood.

  Atruis followed suit, his normally calculating demeanor softened. Even Selene, the most independent of the three, knelt without hesitation.

  "We apologize for disturbing you, Prada," Leon spoke, his voice firm yet laced with humility.

  For a moment, Prada simply stared at them, his silver eyes gleaming under the dimming light of the vanishing Third Moon. His expression was unreadable, the ethereal glow surrounding him giving him an almost celestial presence.

  Then, suddenly, his stern fa?ade crumbled.

  His shoulders loosened, his expression softened, and before they could even process it, he scratched the back of his head in what could only be described as a flustered manner.

  "Oh—um—no need to kneel before me. Really." His tone had shifted completely, the overwhelming presence of an executioner replaced by something far more… human. "I appreciate the respect and all, but you don’t have to do that. Besides, none of you were caught in the crossfire, so it’s fine… but I do have to say—" he pointed at them, his brows furrowing slightly "—be careful. You shouldn’t have been here to begin with."

  Leon raised his head, his eyes widening slightly. He hadn’t expected such an informal reaction.

  "Thank you for understanding, Prada," he said, nodding as he and the others slowly stood.

  As they regained their footing, Prada’s gaze flickered across each of them, curiosity settling into his expression. His silver eyes lingered on their uniforms—dark coats embroidered with intricate silver and crimson patterns, the insignia of Zahuv stitched upon their shoulders. But there was something… off.

  Different.

  Prada folded his arms, tilting his head slightly. "May I know your names?" His voice carried an undeniable authority, but there was no hostility—only curiosity. "I can’t recall seeing any of your faces before."

  His eyes scanned the distinct designs of their Zahuv uniforms, noting the subtle deviations from the standard-issue attire worn by the empire’s soldiers.

  Something about them was unique.

  Something that shouldn’t exist.

  And Prada intended to find out why.

  The tension in the air had not yet fully dissipated, lingering like the final echoes of a grand symphony. The battlefield—once a maelstrom of devastation—had settled into an eerie calm, illuminated only by the faint, dying embers of Prada’s power. The Third Moon, once an ominous celestial body overseeing the fight, had begun to fade into the heavens, its presence no longer necessary.

  Standing before Prada, the three warriors felt his gaze upon them—a weight heavier than any crown, sharper than any blade. His silver eyes, filled with both quiet curiosity and untold wisdom, studied them carefully.

  The silence stretched.

  Then, Atruis spoke first.

  Straightening his posture, his voice was smooth and controlled, betraying no nervousness. "My name is Atruis Delonova."

  His words were precise, crisp, measured—like a well-forged blade sharpened over time. His piercing amber eyes locked onto Prada’s, unwavering, as if he were analyzing the man himself, trying to measure the depths of the power he had just witnessed.

  Prada gave the faintest nod before shifting his gaze to the next in line.

  Selene, standing between Atruis and Leon, hesitated. It was slight—so small that most would not have noticed. But Prada noticed. And so did Atruis and Leon.

  Her violet eyes, which were usually filled with confidence, seemed to waver ever so briefly before she composed herself.

  "My name is Selene..." she started, her voice quieter than before.

  Then, as if realizing her hesitation, she swallowed and corrected herself with a firmer tone.

  "Selene Entrayona."

  Her gaze met Prada’s, and in that instant, something unspoken passed between them.

  Leon and Atruis both caught the way her behavior shifted—how for just a flicker of a moment, she seemed… flustered. A strange, unfamiliar reaction from someone who rarely lost her composure. But before they could dwell on it, the moment was gone, and her usual cold resolve returned.

  Prada made no immediate reaction. His expression remained unreadable, though his eyes lingered on her for a second longer before moving on to the last of the trio.

  Leon exhaled slowly, his turn having finally come. Stepping forward slightly, he squared his shoulders and spoke with a steady voice.

  "My name is Leon... Leon Edguard."

  Unlike Selene’s hesitation or Atruis’ analytical tone, Leon’s voice carried something else—something heavier. A weight tied not to nerves, but to something deeper.

  Prada immediately recognized it.

  It was the weight of history. Of lineage. Of expectation.

  Leon’s name, like his uniform, held deviations from the expected standard. Zahuv had long been an empire of structured traditions, yet the way Leon carried himself—the slight inflection in his speech, the subtle difference in his crest—hinted at something that should not exist within Zahuv’s current ranks.

  And Prada could see it.

  Feel it.

  He studied the three once more, his silver gaze reflecting something that none of them could quite place.

  A silent acknowledgment.

  A realization that they were not just ordinary soldiers.

  But before he said anything, before he could fully unravel the mystery that stood before him—he simply smiled.

  Prada’s silver eyes lingered on the trio for a moment longer, a quiet curiosity flickering within them like a dying ember. He could sense there was more to them—more to their presence here, their names, and the uniforms they wore. But he chose not to pry.

  At least, not yet.

  A gentle breeze passed through the battlefield, carrying with it the lingering scent of scorched earth and the fading remnants of celestial power. The sky, once fractured by cosmic devastation, had begun to stitch itself back together, as if the universe itself was sighing in relief at the battle’s conclusion.

  Prada exhaled softly. "I see."

  His voice was calm, almost contemplative. He glanced up at the sky where the Third Moon had begun to fade, its purpose fulfilled. The world was resetting, yet the echoes of what had just transpired would not be so easily erased.

  Turning his gaze back to them, he finally continued.

  "I suppose I shouldn’t dive in too deep just yet." He gave a small, almost knowing smirk, the faintest sign that he wasn’t entirely letting go of his intrigue. "But tell me… would you care to walk with me?"

  He turned slightly, motioning toward the distance—a path leading away from the ruined battlefield, where the horizon stretched endlessly toward the unknown.

  "I’m heading back to Elysia."

  The name alone carried weight.

  Elysia.

  A city that stood as one of the last beacons of hope in a world consumed by war and ruin. It was not just a stronghold—it was a sanctuary, a haven for those who had lost everything. Survivors, refugees, warriors stripped of their homelands… all had found solace within Elysia’s walls.

  Even now, as Prada spoke, he could picture it—the towering bastions of ivory and obsidian, the endless flow of people seeking refuge, and the ever-burning light of defiance that refused to be extinguished.

  "Most of the survivors and refugees have gathered there," Prada added, his voice carrying the weight of responsibility. "It may not be much, but it’s still a place where hope lingers."

  He turned back to them, his expression soft yet unreadable, waiting for their answer. The offer was simple, yet beneath it lay something more.

  A choice.

  To walk beside him was to step further into a world beyond duty and rank—to tread a path intertwined with fate, uncertainty, and perhaps something even greater.

  Leon, Atruis, and Selene exchanged glances, each of them processing Prada’s words in their own way. The mere mention of Elysia stirred something deep within them—a mixture of hope, curiosity, and the weight of their own pasts.

  Leon was the first to break the silence, stepping forward with a firm nod. “We would be honored.” His voice was steady, respectful, yet filled with unspoken questions. “Elysia… we’ve heard the name, but to walk beside you and see it with our own eyes would be a privilege.”

  Atruis crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly as if contemplating something. “Tch. I guess it wouldn’t hurt. Better than standing around here admiring the aftermath.” Though his tone was laced with nonchalance, there was an undeniable eagerness in his eyes. He had seen Prada fight—no, perform—on the battlefield like an artist carving his masterpiece into reality. There was no way he would pass up the chance to follow such a legend, even for a little while.

  Selene hesitated the longest. Her gaze lingered on Prada, not out of admiration, but as if trying to see something beyond his cold yet composed exterior. Eventually, she smiled softly, brushing a strand of silver-white hair behind her ear. “If you’re offering, then I suppose we’ll take the road together.”

  Prada gave a small nod before turning, his silver eyes glinting beneath the fading moonlight.

  “Then let’s not waste any time.”

  With that, he began walking, his steps steady yet light against the ruined ground. The others quickly followed, their figures illuminated by the ethereal glow of the fading Third Moon.

  The Journey Begins

  The landscape was scarred by war—shattered mountains, scorched plains, and the remnants of celestial devastation still crackling in the air like whispers of a past battle. Yet, amidst the destruction, the night carried an eerie serenity, as if the world itself was catching its breath.

  For a while, none of them spoke. The weight of what they had just witnessed—the sheer display of power that Prada had unleashed—hung heavy in the air.

  It was Leon who finally broke the silence.

  “Prada… if I may ask.” His voice was careful, respectful, but filled with curiosity. “That power you wield—it was beyond anything I’ve ever seen. No, beyond anything I even thought was possible.”

  Atruis scoffed, placing his hands behind his head. “You’re telling me? The guy basically tore apart reality and put it back together like it was nothing.” He glanced at Prada, smirking. “I gotta ask—just how strong are you?”

  Prada didn’t answer immediately. He simply walked forward, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. Then, after a moment, he exhaled softly.

  “Strong enough.”

  His response was simple, yet it carried an overwhelming weight—one that silenced any further questions.

  But Selene, ever perceptive, narrowed her eyes slightly. She had been watching him carefully, and in that moment, she saw something.

  A flicker.

  Beneath his calm demeanor, beyond his unfathomable strength, there was something else—something deeper.

  Loneliness? A burden? Or something even greater?

  She didn’t press him, but she made a silent note of it.

  And so, they walked.

  Four figures moving through the ruins of a battlefield, stepping forward toward Elysia—toward whatever fate awaited them in the city of survivors.

  As they walked through the gates of Elysia, the once-ruined city now stood on the fragile edge of hope and despair. The air was thick with the scent of burnt wood and iron, the remnants of battles fought, but amidst the ruin, a sound began to rise—soft at first, then swelling into something undeniable.

  It was weeping.

  Not of sorrow, but of relief.

  The refugees and citizens, once broken and hopeless, had gathered in the streets. Their hollow eyes widened with disbelief as they beheld the man who walked among them—the man who had fought gods, shattered moons, and defied fate itself.

  And then, the silence shattered.

  Cries of joy and reverence rippled through the air like waves crashing upon the shore. Voices, cracked and raw, lifted toward the heavens, their tones filled with faith and desperation finally released.

  "Prada! He has come to save us!"

  "The hero of legend! He walks among us!"

  Some fell to their knees, their hands clasped together in gratitude, tears carving streaks through the dirt on their faces. Others reached out with trembling fingers, as if trying to confirm he was truly there—that this wasn’t another cruel dream born from suffering.

  Among them, a frail woman, no older than forty but aged beyond her years by hardship, stepped forward. Her body trembled with exhaustion, her limbs frail from starvation, yet she forced herself onward, as if driven by something greater than strength.

  Her lips quivered, forming silent words, but no sound came—only tears, spilling freely down her sunken cheeks. Hope, something she had long buried, flared to life once more in her hollow eyes.

  She reached out with a shaking hand, her fingers brushing against Prada’s arm.

  And he, the legend in the flesh, did not recoil.

  He did not step away.

  Instead, he took her hand in his own.

  His grip was firm, warm—reassuring.

  A silent promise that, for as long as he stood, despair would not take root in this land again.

  The woman choked on a sob, her body wracked with overwhelming emotion. She gripped him desperately, as if he were the last light in a world consumed by shadow.

  And as Prada stood there, surrounded by the people who had prayed for a miracle, his silver eyes softened.

  The weight of their faith, their gratitude, and their unspoken pleas pressed against him like an invisible force.

  He had not come to be worshipped.

  He had not come for titles or songs.

  Yet, he was here.

  And they needed him.

  A quiet exhale left his lips, barely audible beneath the cries of the crowd.

  "You're safe now," he murmured. "All of you."

  And in that moment, Elysia’s dawn finally broke.

  Leon stood at the heart of Elysia, watching the scene unfold before him. The cries of joy, the weeping of the desperate finally given hope, and the unwavering presence of Prada—it was something he would never forget.

  For a moment, he let himself enjoy it.

  The warmth of the rising dawn, the echoes of gratitude that filled the streets, and the feeling that, despite everything, they had survived. They had made it.

  But then, something shifted.

  A flicker in the crowd, a wrongness that sent an icy shiver up his spine.

  Leon’s breath hitched as he turned his head slightly—and his blood ran cold.

  There, slipping unnoticed through the chaos, were three familiar figures.

  Themselves.

  Not as they were now, but as they had been before. The past Leon, Atruis, and Selene, unknowingly walking away, having just witnessed the same event.

  Leon’s eyes widened in horror, his mind racing as his pulse hammered against his ribs. A paradox.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Atruis and Selene saw it too. Their bodies tensed, and without a word, all three of them instinctively took a step back, away from Prada, away from sight.

  Selene clutched her chest, inhaling sharply, her eyes darting between their past selves and Prada. Her expression was pale, stricken.

  Atruis clenched his fists, his usual confidence replaced by something he rarely felt—dread.

  Leon swallowed hard. They had to pray Prada didn’t notice.

  If he saw them—**if he even so much as suspected something was off—**the consequences could be disastrous.

  The very fabric of fate could unravel.

  Their hearts pounded in sync as they stood frozen, silent, unmoving.

  And above them, the third moon, fading into the sky, seemed to stare back, as if it too were watching.

  Prada stood amidst the crowd, his silver eyes scanning the sea of grateful faces. The warmth of the people’s voices, their prayers and praises, washed over him, yet a subtle unease tugged at the edges of his awareness.

  For just a moment, his gaze flickered—something was wrong.

  Leon, Atruis, and Selene dared not breathe. They felt it too.

  The way Prada's head tilted slightly, his brow knitting together in the smallest furrow of thought. It was as if some unseen instinct, honed through countless battles and untold years, whispered a warning in his ear.

  Selene stiffened, gripping the fabric of her coat so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Atruis stood like a statue, every muscle coiled, ready to act if necessary.

  And Leon—Leon felt as though his heart might stop.

  His past self was still walking away, oblivious, slipping further into the distance. If Prada so much as turned his head at the wrong moment—if his eyes landed on them, lingering for just a second too long—

  Leon clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain calm.

  And then—Prada’s gaze moved on.

  He exhaled, his body relaxing as the faint furrow in his brow smoothed over. Whatever had tugged at his senses seemed to fade, dismissed as an unnecessary concern.

  Leon felt the tension ease, but he knew better than to celebrate just yet.

  "Let’s go," he whispered, barely audible.

  Atruis and Selene nodded, their movements slow, deliberate. They backed away, slipping through the narrow paths between the gathered refugees, their steps measured, careful.

  Prada turned his attention fully back to the people, his warm expression returning as he spoke with them. They were safe.

  For now.

  But as they disappeared into the alleyway, Leon couldn’t shake the feeling that they had just walked a very, very thin line.

  As the distant echoes of joyous celebration faded behind them, Leon, Atruis, and Selene followed Prada down a long, war-torn road. The air was lighter now, the weight of fear lifted from the people they had left behind. Hope, once a dying ember, now burned bright in their hearts.

  Yet, even as they moved forward, the scars of destruction still lingered. Crumbled buildings, charred remains of villages, and the silent remnants of lives lost painted the landscape in muted sorrow. The sky, once shrouded in the thick veil of war’s aftermath, now stretched wide and open, the first hints of dawn breaking through the darkness.

  Selene glanced back once more at the refugees they had left behind—faces streaked with tears, hands clasped together in prayers of gratitude. It was a sight she would never forget.

  She turned back to Prada. “Where are we going now?” she asked, her voice steady despite the weight of everything they had just witnessed.

  Prada did not stop walking. His silver eyes, sharp yet carrying a quiet warmth, flickered toward her as he answered.

  “I am heading to the Panatonium Empire.” His voice was calm, unwavering, yet carried a weight that made even the wind seem to still in reverence.

  “For what?” Leon asked, keeping his pace steady beside him.

  Prada turned his gaze forward once more, his steps carrying the authority of a man who had already seen the outcome of his actions before they had even begun.

  “Now that Bethlehem and Valtrax have been eliminated, I must secure aid for the Zahuv Empire—and for every land razed by demons.” His voice carried an unshakable resolve. “With the support of Panatonium, supplies, weapons, and resources can be delivered to those who have suffered. This war has taken too much already, but the people will rise once more. I will make sure of it.”

  The air around them seemed to shift, as if the very world acknowledged the weight of his words. Prada wasn’t just speaking of a plan. He was declaring a future—one that he would carve into reality with his own hands.

  Leon, Atruis, and Selene exchanged glances. They had known Prada was powerful, but this moment solidified something far greater—he was a force that could change the very course of history.

  And they were walking alongside him.

  As the wind whispered through the ruins of the battlefield, Prada's steps remained steady, his silver eyes reflecting the soft glow of the rising sun. The air carried the lingering scent of scorched earth and the distant murmurs of refugees finding solace in their survival. Yet, amid all of this, something had caught his attention—a fleeting glimpse, a disturbance in the flow of time itself.

  Without turning, without halting his stride, Prada spoke. His voice was calm, yet edged with something deeper, something knowing.

  “And may I ask…” he began, the weight of his words settling over the trio like a slow, descending fog. “When I was greeting the survivors, I happened to notice a familiar trio passing by in the distance. Just for a moment.”

  His tone was gentle, almost casual, yet unmistakably sharp, like a blade hidden beneath silk. He finally turned his head slightly, his piercing silver gaze locking onto Leon, Atruis, and Selene with an intensity that made their breath still.

  “Was that… you three?”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Leon felt his throat tighten. He cast a quick glance at Atruis and Selene, both of whom had frozen mid-step. Selene’s fingers twitched at her sides, betraying the tension in her body. Atruis, usually composed, had a flicker of unease in his eyes.

  They had been careful—so careful. They had barely breathed when they saw their past selves, barely moved, barely made a sound. And yet, Prada had noticed.

  Leon forced a chuckle, trying to regain some control. “A-Are you sure? Maybe it was just—”

  “Don’t,” Selene interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Prada’s expression didn’t shift, but the air around him felt heavier. His presence alone pressed down on them, as if the world itself was hanging on the answer they were about to give.

  Atruis exhaled slowly. There was no point in lying. Not to him.

  “…Yes,” Atruis admitted, his voice steady, though laced with reluctant surrender. “That was us.”

  A strange silence followed, one that seemed to stretch endlessly.

  Then, Prada finally turned fully to face them. He studied them—not with anger, not with suspicion, but with deep, unwavering curiosity. The light of the Third Moon had cast long shadows before it faded, and now, Prada sought to understand what had just walked among them.

  “…Interesting,” he finally murmured, tilting his head slightly. “I suppose there’s more to you three than I initially thought.”

  His silver eyes gleamed, unreadable, as if he was calculating countless possibilities in his mind. And then, with a small, almost knowing smile, he turned back toward the road ahead.

  “Let’s keep walking.”

  And just like that, the conversation moved forward. But the weight of what had just been revealed lingered in the air.

  Prada’s steps came to a halt, the worn earth beneath his boots settling into silence. The silver moon hung overhead, its dim glow casting elongated shadows along the ruined path. A faint breeze stirred, ruffling the edges of his cloak as he turned ever so slightly toward the trio.

  His silver eyes, sharp and perceptive, glimmered under the moonlight as he regarded them with quiet amusement. “May I ask how you got here?” His voice carried an edge of curiosity, though his expression remained unreadable. “I don’t think going back in time is as easy as casting a simple flame spell.”

  Leon hesitated for only a moment before answering. “We got here because of your sword.”

  At that, Prada stopped completely. His hand, relaxed at his side, twitched ever so slightly at the mention of his weapon. A chuckle, deep and smooth, escaped his lips—quiet at first, then growing slightly as if the very notion was absurd. He tilted his head, his silver locks catching the moon’s gentle luminescence.

  “My sword?” he echoed, his tone lighthearted yet tinged with intrigue. His silver eyes, always sharp and unwavering, narrowed ever so slightly as the amusement flickered across his face. Then, slowly, he looked down at his own weapon—the ancient, well-worn blade strapped securely to his waist.

  For a moment, there was silence. The air between them seemed to still, as if the world itself was waiting for his response.

  Then, Prada exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, his lips curving into a subtle smirk. “Are you sure?” he mused, his voice carrying a strange mixture of skepticism and knowing disbelief. “It can’t do such a thing. It can’t even cast a spell without my aid, so such a thought…” His smirk deepened. “…is nonsense.”

  Yet, even as he dismissed the idea, something unreadable flickered behind his gaze—something buried beneath layers of certainty and doubt. He traced his fingers lightly along the hilt of the sword, the metal cool under his touch, as if questioning his own understanding of the very weapon he wielded.

  Leon, Atruis, and Selene exchanged glances. There was something in Prada’s reaction—a hesitation, a moment of uncertainty.

  Something about his sword wasn’t as simple as even he believed.

  Leon’s expression wavered, his usual confidence giving way to something rare—concern. His brow furrowed as he took a step forward, his voice steady but laced with urgency.

  “We visited your supposed grave.” His words carried weight, as if the mere mention of it was unnatural, unsettling. “Your sword was there… abandoned, waiting.” He swallowed, glancing at Atruis and Selene, their faces mirroring the gravity of the situation. “And then, the next thing we knew, it sent us here. We saw you… greeting the survivors.”

  His gaze locked onto Prada’s silver eyes, searching for understanding. “Please, you have to believe us. We didn’t go back in time on purpose… We need to return to our era.”

  The air between them grew heavier, almost tangible in its intensity. The distant murmurs of refugees celebrating in the background felt like echoes of a world momentarily forgotten.

  Prada, for the first time since their encounter, seemed genuinely pensive. His expression, though calm, betrayed the faintest trace of contemplation. He raised a gloved hand to his chin, fingers resting lightly against his jaw as his eyes flickered downward in thought. The way he carried himself—always poised, always assured—now held a brief, fleeting moment of uncertainty.

  His fingers tapped idly against his chin as he mulled over their words. A grave? His sword, left behind? He had wielded this very weapon for what felt like an eternity, its steel as much a part of him as his own flesh. The notion of it being abandoned, buried beneath time and dust, was almost incomprehensible.

  His grip tightened slightly around the hilt at his waist, his thumb brushing over the intricate engravings on the scabbard. Was there something he did not yet understand about the blade?

  Was there something it had yet to reveal?

  Finally, Prada exhaled softly, lowering his hand. His silver eyes, calm yet piercing, met Leon’s with quiet intensity.

  “A grave, you say?” His voice was steady, but something unreadable lurked beneath it. “And my sword sent you here…?”

  His gaze shifted slightly, taking in the expressions of the three before him—Leon’s determination, Atruis’s silent contemplation, and Selene’s lingering unease.

  Then, after a brief pause, he spoke again.

  “Tell me everything.”

  As Leon took a deep breath before speaking, his voice steady but filled with the weight of uncertainty and awe.

  “Where you sealed Valtrax… in the Dungeon of Latom,” he began, his mind replaying the strange journey they had embarked on. “There was a set of stairs behind him—at first, we didn’t notice them, hidden behind the remains of the battle.”

  His golden eyes flickered with recollection, a shiver running down his spine as he recalled what lay beyond.

  “The steps led down… far deeper than they should have.” His voice lowered slightly, the memory pressing against his senses. “At first, we thought it was just part of the ruins, but the deeper we descended, the more it became… unnatural.”

  Atruis remained silent, nodding subtly in agreement, while Selene took a step forward, her hands clasped together.

  “It wasn’t just darkness,” she interjected, her voice softer yet filled with reverence. “It was a void. A black abyss that swallowed all light, yet—somehow—pulled us in.”

  Leon continued, his tone now carrying an undercurrent of something almost unreal. “And then… the stairs ended. But instead of a tomb or a forgotten chamber…”

  “…We found a forest.”

  Prada’s silver eyes narrowed slightly. He had expected something grim—ruins, a catacomb, or even a void beyond reason. But a forest?

  Selene nodded, her deep blue eyes shimmering with memory. “Yes… A place untouched by war, by death. A world so full of mana that the air itself shimmered.”

  “Everything was alive,” Leon added. “The trees, the rivers, the very ground beneath us. The mana was thick—almost overwhelming, yet… peaceful.”

  Selene’s lips parted as she recalled the sight. “There were animals too, Prada.” Her voice carried an almost childlike wonder. “Not monsters, not creatures twisted by magic. But real animals—the kind you’d see in ancient paintings. Deer, rabbits, birds that shone like gems.”

  She exhaled, shaking her head slightly as if struggling to believe her own words. “It was like something out of a dream… a paradise untouched by time.”

  Leon’s brows furrowed slightly. “But then… we found your sword.”

  At that moment, Prada’s fingers twitched ever so slightly at his side. His silver eyes remained calm, but there was a shift—a flicker of something deeper.

  The wind stirred slightly, rustling the edges of his long coat.

  “…Go on.” His voice, though composed, carried an undeniable weight.

  As Leon took a deep breath before speaking, his voice steady but filled with the weight of uncertainty and awe.

  “Where you sealed Valtrax… in the Dungeon of Latom,” he began, his mind replaying the strange journey they had embarked on. “There was a set of stairs behind him—at first, we didn’t notice them, hidden behind the remains of the battle.”

  His golden eyes flickered with recollection, a shiver running down his spine as he recalled what lay beyond.

  “The steps led down… far deeper than they should have.” His voice lowered slightly, the memory pressing against his senses. “At first, we thought it was just part of the ruins, but the deeper we descended, the more it became… unnatural.”

  Atruis remained silent, nodding subtly in agreement, while Selene took a step forward, her hands clasped together.

  “It wasn’t just darkness,” she interjected, her voice softer yet filled with reverence. “It was a void. A black abyss that swallowed all light, yet—somehow—pulled us in.”

  Leon continued, his tone now carrying an undercurrent of something almost unreal. “And then… the stairs ended. But instead of a tomb or a forgotten chamber…”

  “…We found a forest.”

  Prada’s silver eyes narrowed slightly. He had expected something grim—ruins, a catacomb, or even a void beyond reason. But a forest?

  Selene nodded, her deep blue eyes shimmering with memory. “Yes… A place untouched by war, by death. A world so full of mana that the air itself shimmered.”

  “Everything was alive,” Leon added. “The trees, the rivers, the very ground beneath us. The mana was thick—almost overwhelming, yet… peaceful.”

  Selene’s lips parted as she recalled the sight. “There were animals too, Prada.” Her voice carried an almost childlike wonder. “Not monsters, not creatures twisted by magic. But real animals—the kind you’d see in ancient paintings. Deer, rabbits, birds that shone like gems.”

  She exhaled, shaking her head slightly as if struggling to believe her own words. “It was like something out of a dream… a paradise untouched by time.”

  Leon’s brows furrowed slightly. “But then… we found your sword.”

  At that moment, Prada’s fingers twitched ever so slightly at his side. His silver eyes remained calm, but there was a shift—a flicker of something deeper.

  The wind stirred slightly, rustling the edges of his long cape.

  As Prada’s expression shifted—surprise flickered across his silver eyes, but beneath it, there was something else. A deep-seated curiosity, edged with a hint of concern. He folded his arms, his gaze locking onto the trio as he processed their words.

  "That... can't be possible," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Then, his tone hardened, laced with the weight of experience. "I've heard tales—stories passed among scholars and battle-hardened adventurers—that when one dies within a dungeon of immense difficulty, the residual mana saturates their remains. Over time, the dungeon itself refuses to let them rest."

  The wind stirred slightly, rustling the fabric of his coat as he continued. "It is said that the bodies of fallen warriors do not decay in such places. Instead, they rise again—not as themselves, but as something else. Echoes of their former lives, reanimated by the dungeon's will."

  Leon, Atruis, and Selene exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of his words settling over them like a creeping frost.

  Prada’s silver eyes darkened slightly, his mind recalling past encounters. "I have dealt with such beings before. High-ranking adventurers—legends in their own right—who fell within dungeons meant for no mortal to escape. They returned, not as men or women, but as hollow creatures, driven only by the remnants of their final thoughts. I destroyed them before they could set foot beyond the dungeon's threshold."

  For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and unyielding. Then, Prada exhaled sharply. "If what you say is true, then this is no ordinary phenomenon. For time itself to shift… someone—something—must have cast a spell beyond mortal comprehension."

  His gaze sharpened, his voice turning serious. "So tell me. When you stood in that forest… did you see a corpse? A figure? Anything—anyone—who might have lingered there?"

  Leon opened his mouth, hesitated, then shook his head. "No… I didn’t notice anyone."

  Atruis and Selene followed suit, both shaking their heads. "Neither did I," Atruis confirmed.

  "There was nothing," Selene added, her voice softer, but certain. "Just the trees, the animals, and your sword."

  Prada studied them for a long moment, his fingers tapping idly against his arm. The wind whispered through the desolate landscape, carrying with it an unspoken tension.

  Something was missing. Something vital.

  And Prada intended to find out what.

  As he closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if letting the weight of their words settle deep within him. Then, a small, almost wistful smile graced his lips. "I see… then it must be a message."

  He turned his gaze upward, the silver glow of the moon casting a celestial light upon his sharp features. The night air felt still—almost reverent—as if the very world was listening. His silver eyes, reflecting the moon's light, shimmered with an ethereal brilliance, giving him a presence that felt both regal and haunting.

  "It’s comforting, in a way," he murmured, his voice carrying a rare softness. "To know that if I truly met my end, I did not fade into some dark abyss, but instead… I slept at a beautiful end."

  A chuckle escaped him—low, thoughtful, touched with an edge of knowing. "Then, if what you say is true, it must mean my mana has become my will… and my will has become my sword."

  He glanced down at the weapon in his grasp, his fingers tightening around its hilt as a familiar warmth pulsed beneath his skin. A deep breath left him, carrying the weight of memories long past. "I suppose I should tell another tale, then."

  His voice carried a quiet strength, one laced with history, with echoes of moments that had long since passed.

  "Many believe that legendary and mythical weapons are only born from the hands of master blacksmiths—those who forge with the finest materials, shaping blades destined for gods and kings. But that’s not the only way a weapon can become great."**

  He lifted his sword slightly, tilting the blade so that the moonlight kissed its edge. "Even a sword that was once dull, discarded, or rusting on a battlefield can be sharpened—not by steel, but by mana. A soldier, one who truly believes in his blade, can feed it his will… and in time, even the simplest weapon can carry the weight of something greater."

  The air grew heavier, more intimate, as if he were weaving the past into the present with his words.

  "This sword—‘Glimmer of Hope’—was never meant to be mine." His gaze darkened slightly, a flicker of sorrow beneath the surface. "It once belonged to a young man I met during my travels… a man who dreamed far beyond his years."

  Selene, Leon, and Atruis remained silent, their eyes fixed on him, listening intently.

  Prada exhaled, the memory clearer than he expected. "I found him in a city long before the war reached its doorstep. He was… determined, full of fire, full of dreams. A man who wished to stand beside me—not as a follower, not as a servant, but as an equal."

  His fingers ran along the blade’s edge, a faint hum of energy pulsing through the metal. "But fate is cruel. His life was cut short far too soon."

  For a brief second, his voice wavered—so slightly that only those truly paying attention would notice. But then, he steeled himself, pressing forward.

  "When I held his sword for the first time, I could still feel his resolve within it. His wish, his unwavering determination… and so, I carried that blade forward in his stead."

  He smiled—something quiet, something reminiscent. "Now, if your words are true… if this sword has carried my will, my mana, and his dream across time itself… then perhaps that is why you were sent here."

  The wind stirred again, rustling the grass at their feet. The moon hung high above them, illuminating the face of a man who had lived through countless battles… yet still carried the dreams of those who had fallen along the way.

  As Prada's lips curled into a small, knowing smile, his silver eyes reflecting the moon’s soft glow. “I’m surprised… that even after my death, he still wishes to protect the Zahuv Empire on my behalf.”

  There was something deeply bittersweet in his tone—not sorrow, not regret, but a quiet acceptance. A warmth that came from knowing that even beyond the grave, his will had not been forgotten.

  “It’s nice to know…” he murmured, his gaze turning skyward as if speaking to the stars themselves, “…that I could finally rest in peace, while the empire remains protected.”

  And then—time shifted.

  A pulse, silent yet profound, rippled through the very fabric of reality. The air thickened, warping and distorting like the surface of a tranquil lake struck by an unseen force. The edges of their vision blurred, the world itself bending—a sensation that was neither painful nor gentle, but absolute.

  And in the blink of an eye—they were gone.

  When Leon, Atruis, and Selene opened their eyes, the world had changed.

  The battlefield, the night, the presence of Prada—all had vanished.

  Instead, they now stood amidst a place untouched by ruin, by time, by war. A place of serenity.

  The Glimmer of Hope rested before them, unmoved, undisturbed. It lay embedded in the ground, its blade gleaming as if untouched by time, its silk still flowing as if caught in an eternal, unseen breeze.

  And surrounding it—a perfect circle of blue morning glory flowers.

  The blossoms, bathed in the golden light of dawn, glowed with an otherworldly brilliance. Each petal shimmered softly, kissed by the very mana that filled the air. The flowers did not simply grow around the blade; they embraced it, nurtured it, honored it.

  It was as if the world itself had chosen to cradle the sword in reverence, preserving it for all eternity.

  Selene’s breath hitched, a shiver running down her spine. “It’s beautiful…” she whispered, almost afraid to disturb the sacred stillness of the scene before them.

  Leon’s golden eyes lingered on the blade, a deep sense of awe settling within him. The sword was not just resting—it was waiting.

  Atruis exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp yet reverent. “This is no ordinary sword,” he murmured. “It’s alive with his will… and it hasn’t forgotten its purpose.”

  The morning wind danced through the field, carrying the scent of fresh earth, of mana, of something far beyond their understanding.

  And as they stood there—**faced with the Glimmer of Hope, encircled in eternal bloom—**they realized something.

  Prada’s legacy had not ended.