When Belstet Fondalfon noticed the disturbance and returned to the throne room, the door to the most revered room in the Crystal Palace was tightly shut.

The term “close” doesn’t simply refer to the action of opening and shutting doors.

In this case, “close” literally means a complete separation from the outside world. It is a manifestation of the palace master’s intent to allow no one else to enter.

However—

“—In this case, whose intent do you think it is, Chancellor?”

Standing before the closed doors, the handsome man with both arms spread wide made Belstet squint his already thin eyes even further, causing him to pause.

The man with a faint smile, who had been allowed entry to the Crystal Palace due to the “Star Reader” nature, held a unique existence that could not be clearly defined as friend or foe.

“Ubiruku-dono, in the throne room…”

“Oh, I’m not being mean; I’m just telling you the truth. The Emperor is there. The real and the fake are both present, so it’s a perfect time for a meeting!”

“…I don’t understand.”

Although it was an expected response, Belstet couldn’t help but place his hand on his chin upon hearing it.

Indeed, as he said, it was a situation that didn’t lend itself to easy understanding. Responding to Belstet’s bewilderment, Ubiruku tilted his head and asked,

“What’s so hard to accept? Is it how I brought the real Emperor here? Well, I—was guided by the whispers of the stars…”

“Even on the battlefield, one can choose a path where arrows do not fall. Even while soldiers are clashing right beside me, one can tread the ground where neither sword nor blood reach, correct?”

“Yes, exactly. But that’s not all.”

Grinning widely, Ubiruku nodded without any pretense of hiding anything.

It was a ridiculous tale, yet Belstet had seen evidence of Ubiruku’s abnormality with his own eyes.

Ubiruku had literally walked through a storm of swords and arrows unscathed. He claimed it was guided by the whispers of the stars, but whether that was true or just a boast of superhuman combat ability was unclear to Belstet.

One thing was certain: whether it was whispers of the stars or Ubiruku’s own power, a force beyond human comprehension surrounded him.

And precisely because of this useful power, both the real Vincent Volakia and the fake Vincent Volakia were unwilling to let Ubiruku go.

Everything was—

“As a guide to prevent the impending Great Calamity.”

“Oh dear, do you not evaluate my humanity?”

“To be deemed worthy of a position based on humanity, only General Goz could potentially fit that bill. Anything else is simply recognized talent. I am no exception.”

Individual attachments are merely the buzzing of flies to be disregarded in terms of state management.

That was Belstet’s belief, and he could assert with confidence that it was the same for either Vincent Volakia.

It was not a matter of right or wrong, or like or dislike; it should be discussed in terms of necessity.

In that sense, Belstet was merely a cog that was necessary at this point, and should he become an unnecessary position, he would have no resistance to being removed.

Ubiruku, whether he was prepared or not, should not deviate from the role required of him.

“Is it not because you acknowledge that, Chancellor, that you chose to overlook my conspiracy with the one seated on the throne?”

“Could it be that you believe my actions to be treacherous? That’s a tall order. To betray you, I would first have to be believed, right?”

“No, not at all.”

“Exactly. It hurts to say so.”

Placing a hand to his forehead, Ubiruku said it hurts while looking merry. Whether it was confidence or something else, Belstet had never seen Ubiruku’s expression crumble.

Until now, he hadn’t found it bothersome, but at this moment, it was the first time he found it irksome.

Having been expelled from the Crystal Palace and deemed unworthy of the title of Emperor, the real Vincent Volakia—now dragged to the door and forced into a crucial confrontation.

“To respond to one of your questions, I—am not changing my position,” Ubiruku said.

“—Position, you say?”

Belstet questioned whether he intended to claim to be either friend or foe. At that, Ubiruku pressed his hands together, made an air-popping sound, and said,

“Of course, as one who wishes to repel the Great Calamity and maintain the peace of the Volakia Empire.”

“—. Is the confrontation beyond this door necessary for that?”

“Indeed, it is. Everything I do is for that purpose. Every heartbeat, every breath I take, every flow of blood in and out—it’s all for that.”

“——”

Belstet fell silent at Ubiruku’s continued declarations as he placed his hands on his chest.

The unchanging smile, the unwavering attitude, yet somewhere in his intense gaze, Belstet sensed clarity and seriousness.

Whether that clarity and seriousness hinted at something dangerous was uncertain, though.

“—Lord, what will you do?”

Standing in front of the massive door Ubiruku guarded, Belstet murmured while picturing the two Emperors who would be facing each other beyond it—one of whom he had personally exiled.

He did not mind being beheaded, having his soul scorched, or suffering any brutality.

If Vincent Volakia, known as one of the wisest Emperors in the empire’s history, truly aspired to be an Emperor, then he had no qualms.

So—

△▼△▼△▼△

“What a lighthearted and fickle man. A ‘Star Reader’ who entrusts his loyalty to the wind is not someone to count on.”

“From the beginning, I held no expectations for his loyalty. If loyalty were enough to fill a seat, it would be impossible to maintain Volakia till today. However…”

“——”

“If it is indeed a fall stemming from not questioning the merits and faults of hidden ambitions, one could say it was inevitable for me to tread upon the palace flooring like this.”

Stepping on the blood-red carpet, Abel scrutinized the opponent before him.

Once Abel arrived at this place, there was no room for debate whose hand aided him. Deeply probing the nature of this interloper, he knew that man poured his heart into fulfilling the wishes of the “Observer” by walking along the edge of the board.

A type of weapon of unexpected gambit. However, unless conditions were met, it was a tool that could not be removed from its post.

Should it be activated, it could be a double-edged sword, and identifying the conditions that could dislodge this tool was the hardest task of all. But, he accomplished it.

Thus, standing once more in the throne room he was expelled from served as proof.

The plotting and crouching until this moment were all aimed at seizing this opportunity.

“——”

Fixated on the throne now facing him, he recognized the likeness of the man sitting there—his own face. Being intimate was not the rationale that connected them.

The face that others would see as Vincent Volakia was, for Abel, someone he’d known for years who wore poorly fashioned masks.

Yet, even a poorly made mask was still a mask.

The visage that overshadowed the true face served to conceal the genuine feelings lurking beneath. For that reason, Abel chose to question not with his gaze but with words.

Moreover, it was a query that pierced through directly, leaving no room for deceit.

“—Have you, along with Belstet, cast me aside, believing it would fulfill your wishes?”

The question released from Abel’s lips could have provoked fury from anyone who heard it.

The exile’s tale, which began in this room in the Crystal Palace, had already spread its echoes throughout the empire, resulting in clashes between Imperial soldiers and rebels, even now continuing to claim lives at the castle walls encompassing the imperial capital.

The people living in the imperial capital were entrusting their lives to the outcomes of this battle.

In such a situation, Abel’s query could not escape accusations of being leisurely posed.

Yet, Abel spoke it. A rebel who had toiled through countless deceptions to reach this moment wouldn’t utter this without purpose.

It was to define what he—the real Vincent Volakia—should seek in the forthcoming dialogue with the fake Vincent Volakia.

And, taking a moment too long to deliberate—too short to consider—

“—No, not yet. I still have not achieved my desired results.”

The voice mimicked Abel’s, the same tone of voice emanated as the false Emperor’s equally responded with honesty.

“——”

In response to that answer, Abel too needed a brief moment.

Interspersing his pensive pause, Abel created a single breath.

Then—

“Still, the desired outcomes have not been attained, huh?”

As he muttered that, he closed both his eyes, defying the innate habits he had held.

Abel never closed both eyes at once. To rule an empire devoid of life, one must keep one eye open; otherwise, after a blink, he would be woefully unprepared.

Through training and awareness, even while asleep, he kept one eye opened to maintain alertness. For Abel, the darkness of fully closing his eyes hadn’t visited him in years.

To enact the act and to successfully do so were expressions of his will.

In other words—

“What a deception.”

Since he had stepped into the throne room, Abel’s voice and gaze had been devoid of emotions such as anger or disappointment. Even against the one who betrayed him, who stabbed him in the back, it remained the same. This iron self-control was responsible.

For the first time, color mixed into Abel’s voice completely devoid of emotions.

A tinge of contempt he could no longer conceal for the one wearing the mask resembling him.

“——”

In response, the false Emperor, warming the throne, maintained his silence.

To keep silent. If that silence merely stemmed from trifling pride, there would be at least some consolation there.

“I see you have driven me from the throne, eliminated Goz after he became aware of the situation, and schemed to preemptively crush my plans, all while playing a key role in the disappearance of the Magic City. The flames of rebellion have spread across the empire, and finally, has allowed the foolish foot of rebellion into the sacred realm of the Imperial Capital.”

“If I was seated on the throne, would things have unfolded this way?”

“From the start, if I had not vacated the throne, this whole scheme could not have been woven. As a result, the great fire you have ignited has burned through the empire. However—”

At that point, Abel took a pause and reached for the mask that covered his face.

And—

“—I could extinguish that fire immediately.”

It was then, as he declared while peeling the mask from his face, revealing his true self to the outside world and his opponent’s gaze.

Two Emperors faced one another, both bearing the same face, a reflection of one another, to whom the other could not distinguish between real and fake.

“——”

He was a clever man. Abel’s actions and words communicated his intentions clearly.

By this point, he was more than aware of his disadvantage, as well as the obstacles that lay ahead. A tide of inevitability loomed that would sweep away the schemes he had painstakingly built.

As they both faced the same disaster, the Great Calamity, that was only reasonable.

And thus—

“I shall return—”

He intended to declare his decision to reclaim his rightful place.

To unleash an involuntary imperial decree and bring closure to this senseless battle ignited by foolish motivation.

It was precisely at that moment.

“—Your Excellency.”

That single word halted Abel’s declaration.

It was a term, a tone of voice that should not be emitted in his presence. A foolish utterance, born from a loss of awareness of one’s position, restricted should never stoop beneath him.

Upon hearing that, Abel’s words were momentarily obstructed.

That could very well be the second moment within this Crystal Palace where Abel—nay, Vincent Volakia experienced consequential betrayal.

The first instance had been losing the throne. Now, this was—

“——”

The moment of pause welcomed the false Emperor who smoothly rose from the throne.

With a heavy obligation to rise, the height difference that already looked down upon Abel increased slightly. However, that impression quickly evaporated and became irrelevant.

Because—

“—Failing to scrutinize the layout of the board was your critical error.”

As he spoke that, he rapidly closed the distance to Abel’s front.

△▼△▼△▼△

—In the Crystal Palace of the Imperial Capital Rupugana, the true and false Emperors drew closer, sharing breaths.

At that very instant, simultaneous changes erupted across the fierce battlegrounds of the capital.

Each alteration emerged from differing sentiments and loyalties, yet one singular point tied them all together.

Not one of the changes in any scene was beneficial in any way.

“—El-Fura!”

Wielding the staff in hand, a gust of wind surged through the tense battlefield.

Typically, the magic concentrated on cleaving the throat of the opponent with minimal effort. However, Ram felt that tactic was ineffective against the enemies in this battle.

The throngs standing in their way were unyielding stone dolls, void of a semblance of life.

Devoid of any self-awareness, they mechanically countered anything approaching them, presenting a human-like form yet lacking any vital weak points.

They would attack regardless of losing limbs, continuously utilizing whatever remained.

Thus, Ram’s preferred tactics bore no fruit.

Yet, she couldn’t simply throw her hands up and surrender; she wasn’t that cute of a girl.

“Release—!!”

As she glared at the swarm, Ram urged forward as a row of brown-skinned warrior maidens, unafraid on the battlefield, advanced alongside her as the People of Shudrak, nocking arrows and firing a single shot at the advancing stone dolls.

Each arrow was enveloped in her wind, directing it to carelessly scatter the problems at hand.

The arrow, infused with wind, gained speed and rotation, striking the stone doll directly in such a manner that the moment the tip penetrated, the wind erupted, sending pieces flying.

The powerful arrow remained effective, directly piercing through its fellow stone dolls, compounding the devastation created.

With a single launched arrow, she took down two or three stone dolls, achieving great results.

Furthermore—

“Fura!”

A soft whisper of a delicate incantation birthed winds of a different wavelength from her destructive winds, sweeping through the ground scattered with broken stone remains.

In an instant, the arrows that fell after shattering the stone dolls shot back into the hands of the charges from Shudrak, replenished, fired again, and continued to take down more stone dolls.

“Fura, El-Fura, Fura, El-Fura.”

Alternating incantations, successive magical executions—delicate mechanisms of magic.

In the Volakia Empire, long left behind in magical evolution, moreover, the Shudrak people, who held nothing but admiration for the refined war skills, could hardly comprehend such extraordinary abilities.

It felt like threading a needle without using hands, moreover, to thread ten or twenty threads through as many holes simultaneously—an act of divine skill.

Thanks to Ram’s participation and the effectiveness of her wind magic, the Shudrak assault power multiplied several times over.

Under Zikuru Osman’s sentiments and emotional attachments, the female warriors pushed forth with preserved strength, ready to crush the third apex.

“Ah, what a delight! Both friend and foe will be swallowed up by the shock today!”

So shouted Mizelda while racing across the battlefield with a gleaming short dagger in hand.

Even with the loss of one leg, her ready footing betrayed no hint that she lacked. Swirling her dual blades as she dashed through the front lines where allies’ arrows flew relentlessly, Mizelda crushed the stone dolls like a storm, tearing open a path.

“Sister, you dodge as you please! Don’t stop! Ride the wind of Ram and let our spirits soar!”

Holding her own bow, Talitta, loosing three shots while others of Shudrak took a single shot, looked back toward her sister rampaging on the front lines, rallying their comrades.

As a result, the arrows from the Shudrak dealt punishing blows to the stone dolls, while those who ought to have cast aside their lives dashed ahead into chaotic formations.

“Get out of the way! You stone trash are ruining the battlefield!”

At the forefront bellowed the man with a garish voice, contrasting his outward appearance with his flowing sword techniques. The eyepatch man slashed through the stone dolls, leveling the battlefield.

It’s a dramatic domino effect indicating overwhelming superiority—such would indeed be the case given previous context.

However—

“Retreat—!!”

From the back of a beautifully coated warhorse, Zikuru raised his voice, signaling the front-line troop’s immediate dispersal. Right after, a wall came crashing down from above, landing directly at the center of that very troop.

A roar and violent tremor shook the ground, manifesting a phenomenon resembling a fight with fortified walls—the threat of Moguro Hagane that merged with the barrier remained undiminished even after whittling down the stone dolls.

With a single sweep of Moguro’s arm, the engrossing battlefield was swiftly overthrown.

It wasn’t a balanced back-and-forth; rather, it seemed like an advance met with two retreats.

Yet—

“What…?”

As Ram passed on arrows, dodging Shudrak’s shots focusing on breaking through, she squinted her thin pink pupils at an unexpected change.

It was merely that she had noticed the sign before anyone else, but it subsequently surfaced as a notable change everyone recognized at the battlefield revolving around the third apex.

The change was—

“—What the hell! You’re turning your back on the enemy! Is that what it means to be a General!?”

Moguro Hagane’s oversized body faced the harsh scorn directed at it.

Yes, the scorn was directed at him. —Having turned away from Ram, Shudrak, and countless warriors clashing on the battlefield, he took a heavy step toward the Imperial Capital.

“Damn! She isn’t waking up at all!”

Shaking her shoulders, calling out, and lightly slapping the cheeks of the dragon-girl Madelin Eshault cradled in her arms—Emilia struggled to wake her.

After retrieving her from the snow, Emilia was doing her best to improve the dire battlefield, yet the results remained elusive.

“What about Mezoleia…?”

Cradling the unresponsive Madelin, as the icy winds played with her silver hair, Emilia turned around to witness the chaotic clash of extraordinary beings.

On one side, a cloud-wrapped dragon, separated from the realm of ordinary beings.

On the other, a seemingly tiny child with appearance and speech, but with a battle prowess capable of rivaling even adults like Emilia, a blue-haired boy flitting across the battlefield.

The fight between the “Cloud Dragon” Mezoleia and Cecilus Segmunt had turned into something worthy of myth.

“Shuwa!”

Pressing his foot with nothing but a pair of zori onto the icy wall, Cecilus ran through the air parallel to the ground.

If you don’t grab hold of anything, typically, a person would fall flat to the ground. Yet, Cecilus disregarded that norm and used the towering ice wall as a platform to approach the dragon soaring above.

With a powerful final step, Cecilus reached Mezoleia in a flash of lightning speed.

Attempting to flap her wings and create some distance, Mezoleia found her movements outmatched, even as she slashed at him with claws; he noticed and delivered a strike with his ice sword to her vulnerable neck area.

“—Giyau!”

A dragon’s pained cry echoing through the air signaled the fate of the ice sword shattered against the dragon’s neck. Was it the resilience of the “Cloud Dragon’s” scales that broke the iron-hardened ice blade, or was it the swiftness of Cecilus’s sword strikes that responsible?

Regardless, having fulfilled its purpose, the shattered ice sword left Cecilus exposed in midair as—

“So many choices! Unlimited creativity and no restrictions!”

The bright voice echoed high, matching the sound of the ice shattering.

The pleasing intonation laced through Cecilus’ words, quickly followed by multiple sounds of ice fragments breaking—not just two or three but an entire chorus.

“Chai chai chai chai chai!”

Just when it seemed Cecilus had become vulnerable in midair, he leapt back into action.

The countless ice weapons birthed by Emilia were quickly snatched from his clothing.

With swords, axes, spears, and hammers in hand, Cecilus swung them with fervor, clearing the stone dolls in a tempest.

“What an incredible sight…”

Standing far enough away to avoid being caught, Emilia thought she could follow the battle unfolding right before her, but had Cecilus moved too near, she might have struggled to track even a ghostly image of him.

Seeing his unbelievable prowess, Emilia wondered if even without awakening Madelin he might defeat Mezoleia before she woke up.

If that happened, then perhaps it wouldn’t be so unreal.

“You too, you’re fighting for someone important, right?”

Staring at the unresponsive Madelin’s sleeping face, Emilia felt a tug at her amethyst eyes.

For all the hostility and accusations Madelin embodied, Emilia knew far better than to dislike her.

The reason for her anger was born from her feelings for someone significant, and Mezoleia had descended to offer support to Madelin.

If that Mezoleia passed away while she slept, what would become of Madelin’s heart in that scenario?

“Madelin, please wake up! Wake up already!”

Even amidst the turmoil of battle, Emilia could not afford to make any selfish demands that Cecilus should hold back or not harm Mezoleia—those were not her indulgences to ask.

Therefore, it was only Madelin. She presumed that neither Madelin nor Mezoleia should lose their lives before this battle ended.

“Ah, I see! It seems the base of the wings is weak!”

In stark contrast to Emilia’s hopes, Cecilus’s analysis revealed the excitement of battle.

Recalling his encounter with Volcanica, Emilia realized she had yet to uncover the weaknesses of dragons, but Cecilus appeared different.

Diving through the air effortlessly as he coordinated to evade their tail strikes and wing attacks, Cecilus’s blade honed in sharply on the root of Mezoleia’s wing.

In an instant, the cries expressed a different echo, with drops of blue blood staining the white snow.

Proof of the slash breaching through beyond the sturdy scales.

“If a dragon lost its wings, what difference would it bear compared to an Earth Dragon? Would they ever have the chance to learn battle tactics on ground level throughout their long lives?”

Cecilus spoke not out of ridicule or disdain.

His tone remained steady, seemingly repeating for his motivation. Yet, whatever he spoke could soon turn into fierce reality in front of their eyes—and Emilia could fully trust this.

Interestingly enough, if Emilia had faith in it, the Mesoleia being directly targeted by his sword must have doubted it even more.

A dragon whose wings were severed would plunge towards the ground.

How intolerable it would be? Emilia could not grasp, given she wasn’t a dragon herself.

Irrespective, it was evident that losing wings would diminish Mezoleia’s chances of winning.

She felt great trepidation at the thought of Cecilus’s speed soaring through the air and Mezoleia failing to catch him on the ground.

“—A dragon!!”

Suddenly, Mezoleia’s deep voice erupted, reverberating to shake off the looming humiliation.

As Cecilus leaped skyward, adrenaline surged kicking into Mezoleia’s side, hurtling him toward the wing’s base. Just before impact, he twisted, redefining his posture from a stomach-down stance to an upward position.

Targeting Cecilus, Mezoleia’s dragon arm whipped.

A claw or scale once ensnared could literally tear apart a human body with ease.

Even the swiftly-moving Cecilus was not exempt, prompting Emilia to scream—but her voice rose not for Cecilus but for another scene.

“Whoa, that was close!”

The mighty arm of the dragon indeed had a grip on Cecilus, but instead of being thrown back, Cecilus expertly aligned his foot with the dragon’s wrist, effortlessly dashing past the overwhelming force.

From the elbow of the dragon arm, he pushed through, propelled forward at dizzying speed.

With an astounding grace impossible to fathom, he narrowly evaded what would have been a fatal blow.

“What a lovely lady!”

“Uh, yes!”

Being called a beauty, Emilia shook off her reticence.

Realizing just how genuine the compliment was, she soared from the dragon arm’s reach, landing atop the ice wall where she conjured another few ice weapons in Cecilus’s hands.

Quickly grabbing them, Cecilus rotated, gathering speed as he prepared to jump again.

The short distance closed in an instant—this blink would prove Cecilus’s attack imminently unreachable by Mezoleia.

The latter would surely pour all efforts into attacking here.

That was expected.

“Aren’t you…?”

Immediately taking a protective stance, Cecilus tilted his head in confusion.

Despite the tacit agreement to yield the opening stance, the anticipated assault never came.

This perplexity was echoed within Emilia as well. Already feeling cornered in this final confrontation, she shared the same realization with Cecilus.

Yet, Mezoleia remained static. Even more so—

“——”

Just before unleashing a dragon’s arm intended to obliterate Cecilus, Mezoleia halted mid-air, gazing above with unseeing whites.

Not at Cecilus who sought vengeance, nor at Emilia who cradled Madelin—a presence she couldn’t neglect.

Her gaze rested on something far higher in the sky.

“…Is that something flying?”

Following Mezoleia’s gaze, Emilia strained against the cloud-filled gray sky.

Beyond the immense shadow of Mezoleia loomed something; an indistinct outline flitted, just within reach of her vision.

Potentially airborne, it could be the dragon flitting overhead, or a flying dragon circling the battlefield, or perhaps Roswaal grew weary from travel.

And—

“—That can’t be true—”

Mezoleia murmured as her wings unfurled.

As the halted dragon sprang into motion, it was not meant to execute the decisive assault that was just delayed, but instead—

“Wait, wait! There’s no way!!”

Seeing that, Cecilus’s expression turned from lively to alarmed in an instant.

A quite familiar sensation, suddenly glancing back, brought forth the surprise of an opponent who unmistakably withdrew, turning their back.

“——”

Ignoring Cecilus’s words, Mezoleia unleashed her wings, cutting through the air.

Once she resolved to fly, it bore an unprecedented speed, leveraging the dragon’s motion to rise as quickly as an arrow released from a bow.

“I won’t let you get away!”

With knees coiled tight, Cecilus expelled his strength, chasing the fleeing dragon, not to intercept; rather, reaching for the ascent of the dragon.

He executed unbelievable strides from his small stature, cracking the thick immense ice wall upon starting, producing tremors as Cecilus launched himself into the air.

Directly in line, he surpassed the dragon’s velocity, approaching the wing, pursuing, closing in, closing, closing, and then—

“—Ah, no, I can’t reach it, right?”

Regardless of how fast Cecilus was, he couldn’t erase the distance separating them from a dragon that had maintained a flight above.

Sadly, Cecilus couldn’t catch up to Mezoleia’s retreat just before toppling, flipping upside down as his momentum drained.

If the Cloud Dragon decided to return and pounce back toward Cecilus, perhaps that very second could have put him at risk.

Yet, Mezoleia did not return. Soaring further into the sky, her wings tore through the ether.

Thus—

“—Are you heading into the Imperial Capital?”

△▼△▼△▼△

—Amidst the changes erupting in the battles throughout the imperial capital, particularly witnessed in two grand developments.

This collision outside the Crystal Palace coincided with both Emperors meeting face to face, their lashes almost brushing together.

“——”

As the leader of the rebels, Abel switched his thoughts immediately.

Facing the exact figure of his own likeness before him, he sought optimal strategies—nay, a plan that surpassed the best.

“—”

A sharp impact struck his left collarbone, causing his thoughts to muddle in red.

Looking down, he realized the strike to his neck was delivered via the iron fan wielded by the figure standing before him—the tool favored by the one hiding behind the familiar mask.

An atypical weapon, he had often pondered the extent of its capabilities.

“——”

He now acquired a vivid understanding of that question about its power, along with the pain pearls striking him square in the brain.

Abel mentally dismissed the immediate pain to devise strategies for his current circumstances without hesitation.

He conjured various options in his mind, weighing practicality and efficacy, orderly prioritizing his response.

Yet—

“This isn’t a game of strategy; it’s precisely the reason you’re not fitted out to be a warrior.”

The multitude of alternatives sparkled in his head, yet the warrior movement was faster than thought.

He revealed the techniques embedded within himself, in blood, and muscle memory.

Without mercy, he seized Abel’s arm, wrenching it while forcefully snatching from his now limp hand, abruptly plunging him into darkness.

“——”

Did they dim his vision? Was it a tactic to blind him?

The fleeting veil over his sight was soon lifted.

Then, he realized what the other intended.

—After his face was once more cloaked in familiarity.

“You—”

Before lips moved quicker than hands or feet, Abel snarled at the black-eyed figure standing before him.

The one with the stolen mask grinned—not with his own face, but rather, Chisha Gold, twisting a false grin that bore the chilling aura of decadence.

The bleak instant—

—A white flash surged through, breaking through the very walls of the throne room to pierce through Vincent Volakia, the unparalleled ruler of the empire from behind.