Xierra sighed.
The sound slipped from her quietly, carried away by the evening air before it could fully form into something heavier. A part of her had clung to the hope that Asta's case would mirror her own—that his grimoire would arrive late, dramatic, and unapologetic, as though fate itself merely enjoyed keeping people waiting. Yet the hours passed without mercy.
The sun sank lower, bleeding gold into crimson, and still there was nothing. No glow. No summons. No book answering his name.
Her fingers curled against the tiles beneath her as the realization settled in.
This was different.
Asta still hadn't received his grimoire. Not when they left the tower. Not when the bells rang for dinner. Not even now, as the sky softened into dusk.
Xierra's brow knitted together as she stared at nothing in particular, thoughts spiraling inward.
They used to be inseparable.
So what changed?
She had been there—always there—walking beside them, watching their backs, sharing the same roof and the same cold mornings. And yet, somehow, the distance between the three of them had grown quietly, steadily, like a crack in stone widening with time.
How?
Why?
What did she miss?
The past rose uninvited, memories brushing against her heart with aching familiarity. Snow-dusted mornings. Mud-stained knees. Laughter loud enough to reverberate through the church halls. Before adolescence crept in and complicated everything, they had done everything together—played together, dreamed together, fought and made up before nightfall.
Xierra had always lingered a step behind.
Even as a child, she had been more observer than participant. She didn't have Asta's boundless energy, nor Yuno's frightening affinity for magic. Her flames were modest things—small spheres of fire tinged faintly blue, obedient but unremarkable. So she read instead. She listened. She planned. Knowledge became her weapon, foresight her shield. If nothing else, her mind was sharp.
Still, there were moments—too many—when she felt small between them.
They were the same age, yet endlessly compared. As if the world insisted on reminding her of the contrast, repeating it until it carved itself into her bones. Loud and quiet. Gifted and stubborn. Wind and fire. It was a song she never asked to memorize.
She sifted through her memories, searching for a fracture point. At some moment, she could point to and say, That's where it started. But the answers blurred, growing hazier the harder she tried to grasp them.
Only one memory remained painfully clear.
Snow falling thick and silent. Cold biting into her skin. Three small figures standing close together, breath visible in the dark.
A promise.
"Let's see who becomes the Wizard King! It's a promise!"
"...or the Wizard Queen," she murmured now, a quiet snort leaving her lips.
The words felt distant—like something borrowed from another life.
Nash's voice echoed faintly in her head, sharp and teasing. When she truly connected the dots, it did sound ridiculous. An orphan from a village by the borders, holding a strange grimoire no one recognized, daring to dream of the highest seat in Clover.
Yeah. Definitely possible.
The sarcasm faded as quickly as it came. Because beneath it all, Xierra still believed—stubbornly—that effort could carve paths where none existed.
She leaned back, tilting her head toward the heavens.
The sky was a masterpiece in motion. Crimson bled into molten gold, streaked with bruised blues and soft whites, as though the sun itself was reluctant to let go. It reminded her of a canvas brushed by divine hands, each color layered with careful intent. She hummed softly, a tune she knew by heart but couldn't name, letting the melody rock her into stillness.
The breeze kissed her cheeks, stirring loose strands of hair and setting nearby branches into a gentle sway, leaves whispering secrets to one another. Somewhere below, water murmured over stone. Sheep bleated lazily in distant fields, content in their grazing. The world breathed, unbothered by her worries.
.
.
.
Time slipped through her fingers unnoticed.
She hadn't realized how long she'd been perched atop the church roof until the air cooled further, shadows stretching long across the village. It had become a habit—an unspoken retreat—ever since Yuno's words had grown sharper, his distance more pronounced. Up here, no one could reach her. A small sanctuary carved from height and silence.
She smiled faintly at the memory of Father Orsi brandishing a broom, scolding her while trying to drag her down after she'd sulked past sunset. Asta was eating her untouched dinner without complaint, saving her a portion for later.
"Oh—right." She straightened suddenly.
"Asta wasn't back when we returned," she muttered, the realization dimming her smile. "And Yuno ran off too. Honestly, leaving without me..."
Her nose scrunched, annoyance softening into something lonelier.
"...I wonder where they went."
The truth was simple, even if she didn't like admitting it.
It was quiet without them.
To stave off the creeping boredom—and the heavier thoughts—Xierra reached for the grimoire resting beside her. Her fingers traced its cool cover before she opened it, pages whispering as they turned.
Illustrations greeted her gaze. Strange ones.
Creatures sketched in unfamiliar lines and hues. Forms that bent rules she thought she understood. Even the simplest spells were accompanied by images, something neither Father Orsi's nor Sister Lily's grimoires possessed. Once, she would have scoffed—illustrations were for children, she'd thought. Now, she wasn't so sure.
Her fingertips brushed the inked figures. The muted colors. The foreign silhouettes. Beasts that wore intelligence in their eyes. Attire she'd never seen in Clover. Monstrous shapes that felt more ancient than frightening.
What are you?
Her brows drew together as unease seeped in alongside curiosity. Words gathered at the back of her throat but refused to surface, drowned beneath confusion and a creeping sense of worry.
Then—suddenly—
A voice.
Not her own.
The memory struck her like a cold gust, freezing her in place. That warning. That presence. The reason her body had stilled earlier was that she hadn't stepped forward when Asta was mocked.
Xierra's grip on the grimoire tightened.
This wasn't her conscience.
And for the first time, she was certain—utterly, undeniably—that something else was listening.
"A curious one, I see," the voice spoke again, slipping into her thoughts as smoothly as breath.
Xierra stiffened despite herself. "You again?" she replied inwardly. Strangely, her pulse didn't spike. There was no instinctive alarm, no tightening dread curling in her chest. Instead, a quiet sense of familiarity settled over her, unwarranted and unsettling in its gentleness.
"My, you're quite the hostile one. Calm down," the voice answered, unhurried—male, she assumed from how deep it resounded in the air around her. "I am no enemy of yours." A faint snicker followed, light and amused, as though he found her reaction endearing.
"Oh, really now?" Xierra arched a brow at the empty air before her, moonlit tiles stretching endlessly in silence. She tested the feeling lingering in her chest—unease, yes, but not fear. Something steadier anchored her instead. She exhaled slowly, shoulders lowering. "Then who are you, and what do you want?" Her tone was even, measured, balanced carefully between suspicion and restraint.
She could almost picture it—the grin she sensed, unseen but vivid.
"Why don't you guess?" he teased. The playful lilt threaded through his words made her jaw tighten. She turned the phrase over in her mind, irritation prickling beneath her skin.
Why don't you guess?
Of course, you're asking me to guess. Why didn't I see that coming?
Realization struck a moment later, followed by a quiet groan. She had already spoken to him like this once, mind to mind. Telepathy. Or something close enough to it. Xierra shook her head faintly, annoyed at herself for forgetting so quickly. A sigh escaped her, habitually heavy.
"I'm not playing your game," she snapped. "Whoever you are, don't think that—"
"For a human who is usually so composed and well-mannered, you're quite feisty, Master." He clicked his tongue, unimpressed. "And here I thought you were the type to keep to yourself, not lash out at something you barely understand."
"Well, excuse me for being feisty," Xierra replied flatly, eyes narrowing at nothing. "And you're not exactly in a position to lecture me when you haven't even introduced yourself."
"You want me to introduce myself?" he echoed. "Why don't you introduce yourself first?"
"You're the one who appeared out of nowhere," she shot back. "Isn't it common courtesy? Besides, you clearly already know who I am."
A pause stretched between them, thin as a held breath.
"This conversation is going nowhere."
"Says you," Xierra muttered.
With no immediate reply, she leaned back instinctively, attempting to rest against the slanted tiles. Regret followed almost instantly as the hard ridges pressed sharply into her spine. She hissed and straightened with a groan.
...No lying down, then.
The voice laughed—genuine, low, and unexpectedly warm. The tension between them loosened, thinning into something almost companionable. "You do realize you're not supposed to be up here, right, Master?" he said, concern threading through his words. "I'm honestly surprised you managed to climb this high."
She shifted, planting her hands behind her and letting them bear her weight. "It's easy when you grow up climbing trees," she replied with a small grin, tilting her head. "And why do you care? Are you worried?"
This time, she was the one teasing.
"Worried?" he scoffed, sharper now. "You're going to fall sooner or later. What other reason would I have?" He paused, then added dryly, "I'm fairly certain everyone back at the church has already given up on telling you to climb down."
That gave her pause.
Concern—real, unguarded—lingered beneath his words. For someone she couldn't see, someone she didn't even know, he sounded... sincere. The thought unsettled her more than any threat might have. She studied the darkness around her; the quiet village stretched below like a sleeping animal.
At first, she suspected deception. A careful ploy. Yet the longer she listened, the clearer it became: there was no malice hiding between his sentences. Today, instinct urged her to listen—to trust what she felt instead of what logic warned her against.
Xierra inhaled, slow and steady, the night air filling her lungs.
"Then tell me," she said softly, the edge in her voice dulled at last.
She asked again, earnest this time.
"...who are you?"
Whoever—or whatever—he was, his silence weighed heavily in the space between her thoughts. It lingered longer than before, thick and oppressive, followed by a brief, indistinct murmur that dissolved into nothingness. The quiet stretched so thin that even the imagined sound of a pin dropping felt deafening.
For a fleeting moment, Xierra wondered if she had finally crossed into delusion. Perhaps this was what happened when one spent too many nights buried in books filled with talking shadows and sentient magic. Or perhaps she truly wasn't in her right mind, choosing to continue a conversation with a voice only she could hear.
She bit the inside of her cheek, lips popping softly before pressing into a thin line. The absence of an answer soured her tongue, heaviness tugging at her eyelids. She was speaking to no one—yet not quite.
"I'll have to find another way to figure out who you are."
Settling her chin into her palm, she maintained her upright posture, one knee drawn close to prop her elbow. Her foot tapped against the tiles in a restless rhythm, head tilting slightly as a quiet hum slipped past her lips to fill the void.
"Are you an enemy?"
"As I mentioned before," the voice replied at last, calm and unbothered, "I am not."
"Well, that answers that," she said, her tone lifting just a fraction, dissatisfaction slipping through despite her composure. She leaned forward, brows knitting as she waited—listened—for more.
Nothing came.
Uncertainty flickered across her expression.
"Can I trust you?" she pressed, firmer now, the question cutting through the stillness as she searched the quiet for reassurance.
A pause.
"Who knows?" he answered lightly. "Perhaps you can. And perhaps not."
She huffed, face scrunching in clear frustration. Of all the questions she could ask, he seemed willing to answer everything except the one that mattered most. She couldn't fathom why she continued indulging this exchange—why she didn't simply dismiss him as a figment of her imagination and move on.
And yet.
Despite her suspicion, there was something about him that felt... familiar. Comfortingly so, in a way she couldn't explain.
"Hm." One corner of her mouth tugged upward as she chose her next words carefully. "Then do I know you? Your voice doesn't sound familiar."
The sound of him pursing his lips dragged on longer than necessary. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, touched with something wistful. "You could say that. We've met before—once, in the past. Maybe a little more than once."
Nostalgia colored his words, as though he were reaching for a memory far out of reach.
Xierra exhaled slowly through her nose, gaze drifting into the dark as if he stood before her, just out of sight. If that were true—if they had truly met—she would remember. She always did.
"How could I forget you, then?" she asked lightly, a teasing lilt masking her confusion. "Or were you just the quiet type?"
Even as she spoke, her eyes slipped shut, sifting through her memories. Faces surfaced with ease—children from distant villages she'd met only once, wandering merchants who lingered for a day, travelers whose names she'd never learned. Her memory had never failed her before.
Yet this time, it turned up nothing at all.
His voice washed over her like a low melody, smooth and unhurried, its playful edge doing little to dull the comfort it brought. It settled somewhere beneath her ribs, oddly familiar. She was certain of it—she would remember a voice like his. Whoever he was, their paths must have crossed before, even briefly.
"Understandably, you are unable to remember me, Master," he dragged at last, his tone seemingly laced with caution, as though treading carefully over fragile ground.
Xierra shifted her weight onto one hand, her answer coming out empty and unfocused, "What do you mean?"
"Well," he began, dragging the word out, "we didn't exactly... talk, per se."
The world lurched.
Xierra stumbled backward as the air before her warped and twisted, black clouds spiraling into existence where there had been nothing moments before. They churned as ink dropped into water, dense and restless. From within the darkness, pointed ears emerged first, sharp silhouettes cutting through the haze.
When the shadows finally parted, a dim glow bled through—and with it, a fox stepped forward.
Its fur was darker than a moonless sky, swallowing what little light reached it. Those eyes, however—those eyes burned gold, bright and arresting, locking onto hers with an intensity that rooted her in place.
Xierra's breath hitched.
Wild foxes were common around Hage. She had seen plenty of them dart through tall grass and vanish into wooded edges, their coats shifting between russet and sun-warmed gold, their eyes glowing faintly green or settling into muted browns and blues. Creatures shaped by land and season, cautious and fleeting.
This one was none of those things.
Streaks of deep violet traced along its face like deliberate markings, unnatural and deliberate. The gleam in its gaze was sharper than any fox she had ever encountered—too aware, too knowing. Mana clung densely to the fox's air like bees to pollen, humming beneath her skin as if recognizing something kindred.
Like a fish thrown onto land, she stared, mouth parted, feet shuffling back as roof tiles scraped and shifted beneath her shoes. She ignored the ominous slide of stone, already imagining Father Orsi's disapproval when he discovered—again—that she had been lingering atop the church roof. Another contribution to the ever-growing list of leaks.
She would fix them later. She always did.
"I suppose chatting like this is futile," the fox remarked mildly.
Her attention snapped back to him.
A talking fox. Of course. In a world steeped in magic, perhaps this was hardly the strangest thing she'd encountered—but it still made her heart race all the same.
He dipped his head slightly, one ear twitching as though catching an unheard sound. His drooping gaze carried a glint of mischief, the subtle curve of his mouth tugging at something darker. For a fleeting second, Xierra imagined him wearing a human face, that same expression etched into sharper features—dangerous, cunning.
His stare felt invasive, slicing straight through her defenses, weighing her reaction with scrutiny.
"Greetings, Master," he said smoothly. "You may call me Inari. It is a pleasure to meet you again."
Again, he said.
Her eyes widened before she could stop herself. Words clogged in her throat, disbelief swelling until it pressed painfully against her chest. She swallowed hard, forcing air into her lungs, grounding herself despite the surrealness of it all.
If he was offering courtesy, she would return it.
With a small, resigned smile—soft and genuine, warmth blooming through her shock—Xierra extended her hand toward him. She trusted, somehow, that he understood the gesture, despite the oddity of a human shaking hands with a fox.
"Xierra," she said, her voice steady, familiar kindness threading through it. "Pleasure knowing you in this short while."
Inari balanced effortlessly along the edge of the roof, his long tail swaying behind him in a lazy arc, as though daring gravity itself to challenge him. He leaned forward, golden eyes never leaving hers, and tilted his head slightly to the left.
His grin widened.
The tail swept forward, brushing against her outstretched hand in a surprisingly gentle shake.
"Likewise," he replied, his tone calm—almost fond.
Despite the easy curl of his grin, Xierra could not quite shake the unease it stirred beneath her ribs. Deception clung to him as naturally as fur to skin—foxes were born liars, after all. And yet, his presence itself did not repel her. If anything, it settled against her shoulders like a familiar weight she had long since learned to carry.
Inari padded a slow circle around her before vaulting up with effortless grace, his paws finding purchase against her shoulders. He leaned close, breath warm against her ear, his voice dropping into a hush meant only for her.
"Trouble is brewing, Master," he murmured. "You would do well to hurry. The lives of your fellow kin hang by a thread."
Xierra's brows knit together, breath catching just a little. "Then why are you still... here?" she asked, voice light but edged with urgency. "Conversing with me, I mean."
Her wary glare barely had time to form before the sky split open with sound.
The explosion thundered from the far side of the village, a violent roar that rattled the air and sent a sharp tremor through the ground beneath her feet. The force of it made her flinch, ears ringing as if the sky itself had cracked.
What unsettled her most was not the noise but the silence that followed. No doors flew open. No villagers poured into the streets. It was as though the village had collectively chosen not to see.
Her gaze snapped toward the rising plume of smoke.
Gray swallowed the blue.
Her eyes, once mirrors of open sky, dulled as they traced the burning clouds climbing higher, stones collapsing into themselves like dying stars. The grimoire tower loomed in the distance, far too close to Hage for comfort. Even from where she stood, the smoke announced itself without mercy, thick and unmistakable.
She ran.
Her shoes struck dirt and root alike, heedless of the way mud kissed the hem of her dress, of how moss clung briefly to the gray fabric before the wind tore it away. She stumbled—hard—catching herself just in time, palms scraping against the earth. Her knees screamed in protest, numbness blooming sharp and fast, but she forced herself upright before the pain could settle.
The grimoire was clenched tight in one hand. The other gathered her skirt as she pushed forward again.
"When I said 'make haste,'" Inari snapped, his tone clipped and incredulous, "I did not mean for you to throw yourself straight into the fire—!"
She did not answer.
Her silence was louder than any retort as she surged ahead, thoughts spiraling too fast to grasp. Something cold slithered along her spine, an instinctive warning that quickened her pulse with every step closer to the tower.
The path fought her at every turn. Stones rolled beneath her feet, roots snagged at her stride, and her lungs burned from the effort. Physical exertion had never been her strength, yet she pushed on, driven by something far stronger than stamina—by fear, raw and unrelenting.
Inari bolted alongside her in a streak of shadow and sinew, his lean fox body weaving through jutting roots and broken stones with effortless precision. Dust scattered beneath his paws as he matched her frantic pace, ears pinned back against the rush of wind. The moment Xierra faltered—just a breath, just a step—he compressed himself, springing upward to perch upon her shoulder, claws light, weight barely there, as though he had always belonged at her side.
Smoke coiled higher, its shadow stretching across the land like grasping fingers.
Her heart battered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that drowned out everything else. Panic crowded her chest, thoughts colliding like thunderheads ready to break.
I don't want to lose them again.
Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as a violent gust hurled dust and debris into her path. She raised an arm to shield her eyes, coughing as grit coated her lashes and burned her throat. Vision blurred, breath stuttered—but she kept moving.
Inside her mind, a plea repeated itself, fragile and desperate, over and over again.
Please... let it not be them. Let it not be them...!
Before her, the world unraveled.
One.
For a heartbeat—just one—she saw it again: a tide of fire swallowing the village whole. Roofs collapsed inward like dying lungs, timber screaming as it burned, silhouettes of people swallowed by heat and light. The image crashed over her senses, too vivid, too familiar, carving its way into her mind with the cruelty of remembered loss.
Then she blinked.
The flames were gone. What replaced them was worse.
Two.
Asta lay crumpled at the foot of the grimoire tower's fractured walls, his body pressed into the dirt by the merciless weight of a stranger's boot. Broken bricks and wild brambles hemmed him in, thorns tearing at fabric and skin alike. His chest barely moved. His eyes—once stubbornly bright—fluttered, struggling to remain open.
Blood traced a slow, deliberate path down his cheek, pooling at the corner of his mouth. Against his pallor, the red looked obscene.
Her breath caught.
Three.
The clothes she had repaired with trembling patience—each stitch a quiet promise—had come undone. Threads frayed and split under violence they were never meant to endure. The worn fabric told its own story: of scarcity, of careful mending, of a life held together by effort and hope alone.
So this was fate, then. Not sudden. Not merciful. Just inevitable.
Her gaze snapped sideways.
Four.
Yuno strained against silver chains that bit cruelly into his wrists, every movement punished by tightening metal. The soft clink of restraint drowned out the broken sounds he tried to make. His eyes met hers, wide and desperate, fear pouring through the distance between them like a silent scream.
Xierra couldn't move.
Time stretched thin, brittle. No one else seemed to notice it breaking.
Her stare locked onto the man standing over Asta.
His heel ground deeper into unmoving flesh, yet no sound followed—no groan, no protest. Black curls framed a face carved into something feral, something wrong, madness coiling there like living serpents beneath skin.
She should have felt rage.
She should have screamed.
Instead, fear took root.
Not the kind that urged flight—but the kind that hollowed her from within.
Fear of what she didn't understand.
Fear of what followed monsters like him.
Fear of the certainty that danger had already noticed her.
Fear of her own stillness.
Fear of the path stretching forward, dark and uncharted.
Her thoughts fractured under the weight of it all.
Was this what awaited beyond the church's walls? Was this the truth she had longed to see? Had stepping into the wider world been a mistake from the very start?
The question echoed unanswered as dread wrapped tight around her chest, stealing her breath and leaving her standing there—silent, shaking, and afraid.
The fox upon Xierra's shoulders felt it before she ever spoke.
The tremor in her frame betrayed her—subtle, uneven, like a leaf caught between still air and storm. Her knees quivered beneath her weight, breath hitching in shallow pulls as terror pressed its palm against her spine. Inari watched it all with quiet sharpness, golden eyes missing nothing: the way her fingers curled too tightly, the way her shoulders stiffened as though bracing for impact that had not yet come.
The weight of a life.
Xierra swallowed hard. Fear lodged itself in her throat, thick and bitter, threatening to choke her silence. She could not afford that—not now. Drawing in a breath that burned her lungs, she clenched her fists until her nails bit skin. The metallic tang flooded her mouth as she bit down on her cheek, grounding herself in pain the way she had learned to do beside Yuno and Asta, in moments when fear threatened to hollow them out.
It had always been a small thing. A shared habit. A way to stay standing.
Now, it was her turn.
Her fingers tightened around her grimoire, the familiar weight of it anchoring her as she flipped through its pages. Each turn stirred echoes of childhood—of nights spent buried in books while the world beyond the church walls felt impossibly distant. Back then, stories had been her escape. Now, the words pressed themselves into her memory with startling clarity, as though they had always been waiting for her to notice them.
And still, doubt crept in.
She clenched her jaw, forcing it back. Hesitation had no place here.
"Inari," she said, her voice steady despite the storm coiling in her chest. "I don't know who—or what—you are..."
The fox regarded her in silence, golden eyes reflecting the flicker of fire and ruin around them. He waited.
He closed his eyes then, just briefly, attuning himself to her voice. It was the same cadence he remembered—gentle, careful, warmed by compassion even when fear threaded through it. Memory stirred, unbidden, replaying moments long past like scenes cast upon a hidden stage.
History had a way of circling back.
Her pause pulled him free of it.
Xierra lifted her gaze, fixing it on the stranger before them with quiet resolve. The fear was still there, trembling beneath her skin—but it no longer ruled her.
"Please," she said softly, the word carrying far more weight than it should have. "Help me win this battle!"
The air seemed to halt.
Her expression had changed—hardened like frost catching morning light. It suited her, Inari thought, pride blooming sharp and sudden in his chest.
His gaze slid back to the man who continued his merciless assault, boots rising and falling without restraint. A slow, wicked smile curved Inari's lips.
"I cannot promise victory," he said, voice low and honest. "But I am part of you."
He turned to her, eyes bright and unyielding.
"So I will follow your every command..."
Surprise flickered across Xierra's face, her breath catching. She waited, half-expecting the words to vanish like smoke. When they did not, relief softened her expression, lips curving into something small but genuine as Inari met her gaze—fickle in method, elusive in truth, yet unwavering in belief.
Fitting of a god.
"...Master."
Her smile widened, just for a moment.
Then her attention snapped back to the man who showed no mercy, who kicked a helpless village boy as though it meant nothing at all. Anger surged hot and sharp—how could cruelty come so easily to one of their own kind?
"Humans," Inari murmured, disdain dripping from every syllable, "are among the cruellest beings I have ever known."
His eyes were cold as he spoke—but when they turned to Xierra, warmth returned, quiet and unmistakable.
"And yet," he continued, "they are also the kindest. Strong enough to stand even when the world crushes them—humanity—over and over again, as written in history."
She did not see the way he looked at her then—with an affection that mirrored Father Orsi's patient kindness, Sister Lily's gentle resolve. His tail brushed lightly against her head, a small, grounding gesture, familiar in a way she did not question.
All Xierra saw was violence.
Yuno's gaze flicked between Asta's unmoving form and her—eyes widening as he noticed the fox perched upon her shoulder. His head shook subtly, pleading. Don't. His expression begged her not to do something reckless.
She ignored him.
Her grimoire opened once more, pages fluttering as blue light danced across her eyes. Thoughts raced, colliding and splintering as she searched for a path forward—one that would not end in catastrophe. She could not afford to unleash something she did not yet understand.
Careful. One spell at a time.
"Inari," she whispered, tension threading her voice. "Which one should I use?"
The fox did not answer at once.
Instead, the wind stirred. Pages turned beneath his guidance, tail flicking with deliberate intent until they stopped upon a single spread. Inari tapped the page, grin sharp and knowing.
Xierra followed his gaze.
And smiled.
.
.
.
Revchi Salik had once worn the mantle of a Magic Knight.
Once, he had stood among those sworn to protect the people of Clover, his back straight with pride, his name spoken with a measure of respect. He had believed in the title he carried, believed in the strength etched into his magic, believed that the world would reward loyalty and effort in kind.
And then it took everything from him.
Fate was a cruel architect—an unseen hand that twisted paths without mercy, grinding lives beneath its turning gears. It did not ask. It did not care. It simply wrote, and those beneath the pen were forced to play their parts until the ink ran dry.
Revchi had learned betrayal long before he learned hatred. The burn seared across his face was proof enough—a scar branded not by monsters, but by men. Humiliation, disgrace, and the quiet savagery of judgment had been dealt to him by someone who stood higher, who decided what justice looked like from above. Someone who reduced a life to a footnote.
Justice, Revchi knew, was blind only when it chose to be.
The world had stripped him bare—his pride, his power, his very sense of self. And if it had taken everything from him, then what reason did he have to leave anything untouched? Why should he not tear others down, drag them into the same abyss where envy and bitterness festered unchecked?
When everyone else had something—hope, belonging, a future—he had been left with nothing.
Perhaps this cruelty was simply how he justified surviving it.
"You put up a decent struggle, lad. Heh... heh... heh..." Revchi's laughter slithered through the air as he loomed over Asta's broken form, boots planted with casual dominance.
"Since you worked so hard," he continued, savoring the pause, "I'll tell you a little secret."
Thunder growled above them, low and ominous, as though the sky itself recoiled.
"These chains," he said, leaning closer, eyes gleaming with sick delight, "reveal the magic of anyone who touches them."
His voice dipped, sharpened.
"And you—"
Revchi's grin widened as he looked down at Asta.
"—have absolutely none."
From the corner of her vision, Xierra saw it happen.
The light in Asta's eyes faltered.
His battered face, pale beneath the grime and blood, froze in something like disbelief. Shock hollowed his expression, draining the stubborn fire that had always burned so fiercely within him. The boy who never stopped shouting, never stopped moving, never stopped believing—went terrifyingly still.
"You were probably born that way," Revchi mocked, laughter spilling freely as he drove another merciless kick into Asta's side. "No wonder you can't use magic at all!"
Each blow sent a jolt of panic through Xierra's chest. Her fingers curled into her palms until pain bloomed, grounding her where fear threatened to unmoor her. Every instinct screamed for her to move—but she held herself back, clinging to the fragile shape of her plan.
"In this world," Revchi continued, voice dripping venom, "you won't be able to do anything. Nothing at all."
The words echoed.
Because once—long ago—Revchi had been the same.
A man who could do nothing. A man discarded. A man deemed worthless by the world.
Perhaps that was why he lingered over Asta. Why he twisted the knife deeper. In the boy's helplessness, he saw a mirror—and in breaking him, he tried to convince himself that he had not been the lowest one after all.
"You should give up," he sneered. "You were born to be a loser!"
Xierra felt something fracture inside her.
She believed in Asta. She always had.
He was reckless, loud, unbearably stubborn—too bright, too persistent, too alive for a world that tried again and again to crush him. He was the first to charge forward, the last to fall back. The one who taught her that giving up was never an option.
So why was he lying there now?
Why were his eyes dull, his body unmoving, his spirit bowed beneath words instead of wounds?
She couldn't bear it.
To her, Asta was the light of the church. Without him, everything dimmed. The halls would fall silent. The colors would drain away. The balance they clung to would shatter.
She refused to watch him disappear.
Her hand hovered above her grimoire.
The pages responded.
Letters etched in pale white began to shimmer, suffused with a soft silver glow threaded through with glacial blue. The air around her chilled, humming with restrained power.
Her voice rang out—clear, resolute, unyielding.
"Astral Creation Magic: Night of a Thousand Stars!"
The sky obeyed.
Darkness rushed in unnaturally fast in the space they stood in, swallowing the fading daylight as though time itself had been yanked forward, trapping them in a dome of void. The heavens deepened into rich blues and violets, vast and endless. Then—one by one—lights ignited above them.
Stars bloomed across the dome.
Countless, radiant, alive.
They whirled and gathered, each one sharpening its descent toward the man who dared to crush another human beneath his heel. Trails of light streaked downward like judgment given form, brilliant and merciless.
Revchi threw his head back, laughter tearing from his throat as the stars chased him through the night.
"Heh... heh... heh...!" His eyes gleamed with manic delight as his gaze locked onto Xierra. "You're the one with that strange grimoire...! Perfect."
Being singled out sent a shiver racing up her spine.
Xierra staggered, breath catching as fear coiled tight in her chest—but she did not look away.
As a former Magic Knight, Revchi moved as though the battlefield bent itself around him. Each star Xierra hurled sang through the air with brittle light, only to be sidestepped with infuriating grace. He twisted, dipped, and slipped between them, boots barely kissing the ground, as if her magic were little more than falling ash.
The ease of it made her chest tighten.
Every miss carved another fissure into her focus. Her breath grew uneven, heat pooling beneath her ribs as frustration gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. She adjusted her stance, forced her fingers to stop trembling—but doubt was already creeping in, soft and insidious.
What if this was as far as she could go?
What if this was the difference between someone who belonged on the frontlines and someone who didn't?
Revchi laughed, the sound jagged and wrong, curling through the smoke like something alive. His dark curls writhed with the motion, coiling around his face in damp spirals that caught the light like fangs.
"I'd wager your grimoire is worth more than this four-leaf clover," he sneered, lifting Yuno's grimoire with deliberate cruelty, letting it glint between his fingers.
The sight struck her harder than any blow.
As his own grimoire surfaced beside him, its pages snapped open, stirred by an unseen current. From its depths unfurled a churning vortex of gray and white, spiraling wide behind his frame. From it emerged chains—no, serpents—metallic bodies slithering forward with a chorus of shrill clinks. They intercepted the remaining stars mid-flight, crushing them into sparks and dust.
The air thickened. Debris swelled upward, swallowing the battlefield in a blinding haze.
"I'm Revchi of Chain Magic. Former Magic Knight," he announced sharply, as though the clash itself were merely a stage for his voice. "Do you really think you can defeat me with a spell that weak? You're nothing but a newbie who got her grimoire today!"
Xierra coughed, raising an arm to shield her eyes as grit scraped against her skin. Her clothes clung to her, torn and scorched, but when she straightened—slowly, deliberately—there was something steady in her posture.
"No," she replied, lips quirking despite the chaos, her voice light but unyielding. "I expected nothing less from a foe—much less a former Magic Knight."
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause.
Yuno's eyes flicked toward her, surprise flashing across his expression. The fox that had once warmed her shoulder was gone, leaving behind a strange, hollow absence—and yet, her smile sharpened, edged with resolve.
"But don't think," she continued, gaze locked forward, "that I'm alone in this!"
Behind Revchi, the shadows moved.
A fog of black bled into existence, thick and suffocating, rolling low across the ground like spilled ink. His chains rattled, drawing closer to his body as if sensing the shift. From within the darkness emerged a pair of twitching ears, followed by a long, obsidian tail that swayed back and forth—slow, deliberate.
Like a clock marking the end of borrowed time.
Inari counted silently, eyes gleaming from within the fog.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Time stretched thin, taut as a wire, and for once—
Revchi was the one standing in the dark.
To Be Continued...