"What..."
Revchi faltered mid-breath. The word barely escaped him before it dissolved into something small and brittle. His eyes widened, pupils blown wide with naked fear, and his fingers hovered above his grimoire as though unsure whether to cling to it or cast it away. Instinct dragged him backward, one unsteady step at a time.
"What the hell is that...?"
The shadow pooling beneath his brow refused to lift from Asta's grimoire. It clung there, thick and obscene, steeped in a bloodlust Revchi knew far too well. He had felt it before—on battlefields soaked in iron and screams, during nights when survival came at the cost of another's breath. The pressure bore down on him now, heavy enough to buckle his spine. It was suffocating. Final. Like death itself had raised a fist and begun pounding on his door, each knock loud enough to drown out thought.
He lashed out anyway.
Chains screamed through the air, steel fangs snapping toward the limping boy. Revchi ignored the shrill alarm ringing in his skull, the whisper that begged him to stop—to turn away, to choose something else, anything else. Regret clawed at him, sharp and insistent. But he had already sunk too deep.
Behind him, Xierra moved.
She hurried after Yuno, boots scraping against fractured stone as she reached for the grimoire he had dropped. Her hands closed around it with reverent care, as though it were something fragile, something alive. For a moment, it lingered against her palms—warm, responsive—before lifting itself free and drifting back to its rightful owner. She smiled softly as it returned to him, relief easing the tightness in her chest.
The chains binding Yuno loosened of their own accord, slithering away like shed skin. They redirected themselves in a vicious arc, rushing to assist their master in ensnaring Asta instead.
Xierra turned.
Her breath caught as she watched Asta move.
Each swing of his blade was sharp and decisive, the oversized sword carving through the air with brutal clarity. Steel met steel, and the chains recoiled under the force of impact, repelled as though they were nothing more than brittle twine. The assault was relentless—merciless—but Asta met it head-on, defiance etched into every motion.
She didn't look away.
Her lips parted slightly, awe bright in her eyes as she followed his movements—every step, every strike, every breath he dragged from bruised lungs. The wind tore at her hair, the atmosphere trembled with the collision of magic, but none of it reached her. Her world narrowed to him.
"He's strong," she said, voice warm with certainty. "Stronger than before."
Yuno didn't glance at her. His attention remained fixed on Asta's unyielding stance, on the way he refused to fall.
"Yeah," he replied quietly. "He is."
At the brink of death, Asta burned brighter than either of them. Courage kept his heart beating. Determination pulled him forward when reason said to stop. It felt almost cruel—like fate itself was reaching back in apology, finally extending a hand to the child it had once cast aside.
"But we are, too."
The words drew Xierra's gaze to Yuno, surprise flickering across her features.
"You and I worked just as hard as he did," he continued, steady and unflinching. "Don't belittle yourself. You're his strength—just like he's ours."
Above them, the sky held the earth in a wash of amber and gold, sunlight pressing close as though reluctant to leave. The warmth lingered, reflected in stone and soil alike, mirroring the quiet yearning below.
Xierra looked anywhere but at him.
Her cheeks burned, heat spreading up to the tips of her ears as she fixed her attention on the ground, suddenly fascinated by dust and cracks and anything that wasn't his gaze. Her fingers worried at the hem of her skirt, betraying nerves she hadn't meant to show.
Yuno noticed.
A faint smile touched his lips—soft, fleeting, nothing like the impassive mask he usually wore. Sunlight softened the sharpness of his stare, chased away the chill from his expression. Something warmer took its place. Something alive.
Seeing her like this—flustered, vulnerable, real—sent a quiet ache through his chest. This wasn't empty teasing. Every word he'd spoken carried truth, a truth he hoped one day she might return.
But they were young.
There was time. So much of it stretched ahead, uncertain and vast.
He would wait.
No matter how long it took, no matter what answer she chose, he would stay. He had made that promise to himself long ago—to shield her from the world's cruelty, to keep her smiling, even if it meant standing a step behind her.
And for now, that was enough.
.
.
.
Xierra cleared her throat, surprised by the sudden dryness scraping at the back of it. The sound came out softer than she intended. Returning Yuno's small smile felt difficult. Instead, her gaze drifted elsewhere—toward fractured stone, toward the trembling air—anywhere that wasn't him.
He was too bright when he looked at her like that. Blindingly radiant. Effortlessly composed. And unbearably charming.
It made sense, she supposed, why girls from Hage and the neighboring villages flocked to him like moths chasing the flames they didn't quite understand how to put out. Anyone would be drawn in. Anyone would want to stand a little closer, bask a little longer.
What she hadn't realized—what she couldn't yet name—was that he wasn't just light.
He was the sun itself.
And somehow, impossibly, she was caught in its orbit.
They stood there, neither aware of the quiet blooming taking root between them. Of the way their chests felt too full, their breaths just slightly off rhythm. Of the fluttering unease low in their stomachs, or the warmth that lingered every time their shoulders brushed.
They were sun and soil, unknowingly nurturing something fragile.
Sky and sea, endlessly reaching.
Moon and star, close enough to ache.
"Come."
Yuno's voice slipped cleanly through the haze of her thoughts, grounding her. She startled when his fingers closed around hers—not firm, not hesitant, but gentle in a way that made her breath hitch.
"Let's get somewhere safer."
Her heart slammed against her ribs, loud enough that she was certain he could hear it. She nodded anyway, small and quick, eyes flickering between the chaos of the battle and the way his hand tugged her forward. Her palm felt slick, nerves prickling along her skin, and she wondered—absurdly—if he noticed. If he minded.
If he cared.
"You little twerp!"
The shout tore through the air as debris erupted around them. Brick and stone twisted violently, walls shaving themselves down under the force of clashing magic. Chunks of masonry skidded across the ground, sparks of dust spiraling upward as the wind howled through the corridor like a furious dance partner. The earth groaned beneath their feet, a deep, unstable rumble echoing through bone and breath alike.
Yuno didn't slow.
Perhaps it was his way of helping Asta without intruding—supporting him from the edges, clearing paths, keeping danger at bay.
Or perhaps it was something quieter.
A message, carried in action rather than words.
You are not alone.
Not now. Not ever.
Not while Yuno and Xierra still stood.
They would return to him when this was over, no matter what it took. Even if their knees scraped raw against dirt and mud, even if their lungs burned with exhaustion. Childhood bonds did not break so easily.
They moved faster, ducking behind the nearest standing wall as shards of stone rained down. Somewhere beyond the barrier, the former Magic Knight screamed—high, frantic, unraveling—followed by another thunderous impact that rattled what remained of the structure.
Xierra pressed her back against the cold surface, breath shallow as she listened. There was no space for them on that battlefield. No opening to step in without disrupting what Asta needed to finish himself.
This was his stage.
And they would watch, bear witness, make sure he wasn't denied the ending he deserved.
A sudden weight landed on Yuno's shoulder.
Inari perched there with effortless balance, tails flicking as a familiar, sharp grin split his muzzle. A low cackle bubbled from his chest, brimming with mischief and something darker beneath. His golden eyes slid toward Xierra, knowing and amused.
She shot him a brief, unamused glare.
The fox looked pleased.
Yuno turned his head slightly, attention shifting from the battlefield to her face. The grin vanished from Inari's notice as the boy spoke.
"Are you all right?"
The question held more than concern for flying debris.
He had seen the way she stiffened when the fox appeared. The brief scowl she hadn't masked in time. How she averted her gaze whenever Inari's eyes lingered too long, lips pressing together as though holding something unsaid. How she let Yuno guide her without protest—and how she startled every time he moved too suddenly.
It was all there.
And he noticed every bit of it.
Yuno's lips curved into something softer than a smile, barely there yet unmistakably warm. He found her reactions—every flustered glance, every hurried breath—endearingly human. There was a new glint in his eyes as he took her in, as though he were seeing a hidden constellation emerge where he had once thought the sky familiar.
This side of Xierra was quiet. Hesitant. Almost fragile.
It was nothing like the girl everyone else knew.
She was usually composed to a fault, smiling with practiced ease, carrying herself with a grace that made hearts stumble without her ever realizing it. And yet here she was, cheeks aflame, lashes lowered, fingers curling anxiously as though unsure where to rest.
Yuno knew exactly why.
Xierra was kind in ways that never demanded attention. Clever without arrogance. She slipped effortlessly into every space she entered, welcomed by children tugging at her sleeves and adults trusting her with their worries. There was something about her—something gentle and grounding—that made people feel seen.
She loved the forest paths beyond Hage, the hush of leaves stirred by wandering wind. She adored her family, her friends, the kingdom she called home, even when it gave her little in return. And she carried that affection openly, without reservation.
He had watched her disappear into books for hours on end, curling up in corners of the church or pestering Drouot until the old man relented and let her read in his office. He had seen her return from the village with dirt-smudged skirts and tired smiles after helping with chores no one else volunteered for, rewarded only with gratitude and the laughter of children clinging to her legs.
She had a way of coaxing Arlu and Horo into eating Father Orsi's nearly inedible cooking, a way of sweetening even the most stubborn moods. She learned to bake from the older women, filling the church with warmth and sugar, with something that felt like home.
There were so many moments he hadn't realized he was collecting.
And so many details only he seemed to notice.
Yuno admired every part of her.
The polished edges and the hidden fractures. The careful smile and the moments when it faltered. The scars she never spoke of and the way she stitched herself back together each time.
It had taken him a decade to understand what he felt.
Almost another to accept it.
If he were braver with his words, he suspected Xierra's heart might not survive it.
Every small motion betrayed her inner chaos—the tremor in her breath, the way her lashes fluttered when she dared to look at him. He knew that pushing her now would only overwhelm her, yet the knowledge that his presence alone could unsettle her so deeply filled him with a quiet, guilty warmth.
His fingers did not release hers.
Instead, his grip tightened—steady, deliberate. Heat bled from his palm into hers, anchoring her to the present, coaxing her back whenever her thoughts threatened to scatter. It was grounding, unspoken, a reassurance shaped by touch rather than sound.
He wanted to tell her that everything would be all right.
That no matter how violently the world shifted around them, he would remain.
The pressure of his hold was a promise, silent but sincere.
As the battle raged beyond the broken wall, Yuno noticed the way her gaze kept drifting toward Asta. How her eyes traced every bruise and cut, every scar carved into his skin by hardship and stubborn resolve. A familiar ache stirred in his chest, unwelcome and sharp.
It felt wrong to be jealous.
Wrong to let that feeling surface when she stood beside him, her hand in his, rather than at Asta's side. Asta—who had grown up with them, who shared their dreams, who was as much a part of their world as the sun itself.
Yuno knew better than anyone that words were not fate.
Fate was fickle. Cruel. Laughably indifferent.
Humans prayed for what they could not reach, feared what they could not understand. And he was human, too.
He feared what lay ahead.
He feared that this jealousy—quiet, festering—would one day wedge itself between them, tearing open a rift he might never cross. The thought of losing her not to another person, but to his own insecurities, lingered like a shadow at the edge of his vision.
Still, he held her hand.
Hoping that when the time came, he would be strong enough to bridge whatever distance threatened to grow.
Admitting his feelings, he believed, was an act of courage.
And yet—
He was jealous of the way she called Asta's name, reminding him not to skip dinner. Jealous of the way she inspected his injuries after training, gentle fingers lingering longer than necessary. Jealous of the way she looked at him—as though he were light incarnate.
Asta was his light, too.
Their light.
Every shared memory fed that ache, made it bloom deeper, sharper. Each time she showed Asta the care he himself longed for, his chest tightened with something dangerously close to grief.
Guilty of jealousy, he was. An abstract emotion that he found nigh useless in its wake.
And for now, that guilt remained his alone.
"Worry not," a small voice murmured near his ear—so close it might have been mistaken for a thought of his own, woven gently into the cadence of his breathing. The tension coiled around Yuno's heart loosened, if only by a fraction.
He turned his head.
Inari met his gaze without flinching, amber eyes reflecting the same molten gold that burned quietly within Yuno's own. There was no mischief in the fox's smile this time, no sharpness or teasing curve—only something ancient and knowing. It was the sort of expression worn by beings who stood outside the flow of mortal time, who observed rather than participated, yet understood all the same.
"You should not hold yourself so tightly," Inari said, his voice low, thoughtful. His gaze drifted briefly toward the battlefield, where Asta continued to press forward despite the chaos. "Her admiration is not something you must compete for."
Yuno stilled.
"It is something you share."
The words settled heavily, yet gently, in his chest.
Inari's eyes softened. "You know that feeling well," he continued, as though speaking aloud what Yuno had never dared to name. "More than you allow yourself to admit."
It was unsettling—how easily the fox unraveled him. As if the barriers Yuno had spent years building were nothing more than mist to cut through.
"To love someone," Inari went on, "is to accept every fragment of her being. And to trust that she may one day do the same for you." A pause, brief but deliberate. "With time, she will give you an answer."
The fox watched him closely, fondness flickering in his gaze. That quiet devotion, restrained yet unwavering—it was familiar. Too familiar. It reminded Inari of promises made not through grand declarations, but through constancy. Through staying. Through choosing, again and again.
Yuno did not speak.
He did not need to.
His resolve had never relied on words.
It was etched into every step he took, every battle he endured, every moment he chose to stand beside her rather than ahead of her. This was not a passing feeling—it was a purpose he had accepted long ago.
Asta's voice rang out across the fractured courtyard, loud and bright despite the destruction surrounding him.
"Man, this thing's heavy!" he complained, though his grin betrayed him as he swung the massive blade with alarming ease. He shifted his footing, muscles coiling as he deflected another barrage of chains. "Didn't think all that training would pay off like this!!"
Xierra inhaled sharply.
"Asta," she said, her voice quiet but clear, threaded with dawning realization. "I think... I think he can wield it because he doesn't have any magic."
Yuno understood instantly.
The sword rejected mana as if it were poison, slipping through spells untouched. It was not meant for them—could never be. The grimoire Asta had been given was a paradox, a thing born of absence rather than abundance. Anti-magic, shaped for someone who had grown up with empty hands and unyielding hope.
It felt cruel.
And yet—fitting.
Fate, in its twisted humor, had given Asta exactly what he needed to chase his dream. Even if the cost was a burden no one else could bear for him.
Asta surged forward, blade cleaving through the air as Revchi staggered back, his screams dissolving into panic-stricken incoherence.
"H-He nullified my magic?!"
His disbelief rang hollow against the truth crashing down around him.
"Even without magic," Asta shouted, voice tearing through the dust and echoes, "I'll become the Wizard King!!!"
The declaration burned through them all.
There it was—that familiar fire. Smaller than it once had been, perhaps, battered by years of hardship and ridicule. But it had never gone out. Not once.
It lived within them still.
An unspoken promise lingered between the three of them, forged long ago in silence rather than speech. Their eyes remembered what their voices never said—snow crunching beneath bare feet, breath fogging the air, laughter echoing across a blank white world.
Back when winter had been cruel.
And Asta had held them close anyway.
He had been their warmth then.
Their sun.
Burning fiercely enough to eclipse every other star.
.
.
.
It had happened years ago, and yet the memory lingered with cruel clarity—the precise moment when the world had shifted, quietly and irrevocably, toward something better.
"Asta...!" Yuno's voice tore through the frozen air.
His body hit the snow hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs as the ice swallowed him whole. The cold crept through his clothes instantly, biting and unforgiving.
"Yuno!" Xierra didn't hesitate.
She ran to him, boots slipping against the slick surface, and seized his hand with both of hers. Her fingers burned as she pulled him upright, the sting of the cold blooming red across her skin. She barely seemed to notice. Her focus was already elsewhere—scanning his arms, his face, the shallow tremor in his breath.
His nose was flushed, his hands trembling despite how tightly he clenched them.
And yet, his eyes weren't on himself.
They were fixed on Asta, just behind her.
Concern. Guilt. Fear.
It was all there.
"Come," Xierra urged softly, tugging him along. Her grip never loosened.
They moved together through the snow, each step sinking deeper than it should have, their footprints misshapen and heavy—as though the earth itself was reluctant to let them go.
She remembered what people used to whisper.
That children like Asta were trouble. That he was cursed. That he might be a devil's child, dragged straight from the depths of hell. Others spoke more kindly, calling children angels instead—pointing at her and Yuno as if they were proof of such things.
But angels or devils, they still sank into the snow.
They still bled.
They were still human.
The picture books said angels and devils both had wings. Sister Lily told them that if they were good, angels might descend to help them in times of need. Father Orsi said everyone had a guardian watching over them, unseen but ever-present.
So why didn't they come now?
Why did no one stop that man?
Why were they left here, small and shaking, facing something so much bigger than themselves?
Xierra had always believed the earth grew cold in winter because it needed rest—hibernating like a great beast, sleeping until spring returned. She thought the snow was meant to be gentle, a soft blanket laid over the world after a long year of movement and noise.
But right now, the snow felt hollow.
Empty.
Like a canvas untouched by color. Like a page waiting desperately for words.
The cold gnawed at their skin until sensation dulled, until red spread across their hands and cheeks, until tears burned hot against frozen flesh. Their bodies felt distant, unresponsive—too tired to protest, too numb to fight.
They shouldn't be crying.
Crying wouldn't help Asta stand back up.
Crying wouldn't bring back Yuno's pendant.
Crying wouldn't heal bruises or close wounds.
So why wouldn't the tears stop?
They fell anyway—relentless, betraying, staining the snow beneath them.
Their clothes were soaked and filthy, snow muddied with dirt clinging to fabric. Scratches marked their arms and legs, skin mottled blue and black beneath torn sleeves and hems.
Then Asta fell again.
Something inside Yuno broke.
Asta lay sprawled in the snow, unmoving, his body swallowed by white. One eye was swollen shut, his face bruised and battered beyond recognition—and still, he smiled.
As if to tell them it was fine.
As if to ease their pain.
Xierra watched the man stumble away, muttering under his breath. Drunk, she thought distantly. Careless. Gone. Wasted.
She pulled Yuno with her, kneeling beside Asta, staring down at him as though the snow itself had cradled him there.
Her brows knit together.
How could he laugh right now?
How could he still smile when everything hurt?
How could he be so stubbornly strong—without shedding a single tear?
Snow began to fall.
Soft at first. Hesitant. Then steady.
Flakes drifted down from the heavy gray sky, brushing against their hair, their cheeks, their hands—settling into every exposed place with quiet tenderness.
It felt as though the world itself was crying with them.
Time stretched thin, each second dragging unbearably long. They wanted to go home. They wanted warmth, safety, familiarity—but their bodies refused to move, muscles screaming for rest as they collapsed into the snow, sobbing alongside the earth.
They weren't alone.
The ground shared their sorrow.
And still, time marched on—indifferent and unyielding—allowing the frozen rain to sink into the soil, sealing the pain of that winter deep within the earth.
"I... I'm going to become the Wizard King," Asta rasped, forcing the words out through clenched teeth and a trembling breath.
Pain carved itself into every inch of him, yet he still managed to lift his head. Snow clung to his hair and lashes, melting slowly against fever-warm skin. He flashed them a grin—crooked, unfaltering, far too bright for someone lying broken in the cold.
"I'm going to protect you two," he added, voice wavering but resolute. "And everyone else!"
Yuno's expression tightened.
It wasn't the dream that troubled him. He had heard Asta say it countless times before, with the same fire, the same certainty. No—what gnawed at him was the angry purple blooming beneath Asta's skin, the way his breathing hitched, the unnatural stillness of his limbs between bursts of stubborn movement.
Adults were stronger. That truth had been carved into them today.
Asta's wounds told that story plainly.
Yuno knelt and retrieved his pendant from the snow, fingers brushing away the frost with deliberate care. The blue gem caught what little light the sky allowed, reflecting it faintly. He traced its surface with his thumb, grounding himself in its cool solidity.
It reminded him of Xierra's eyes—clear and endless like the open sky.
It reminded him of Asta's relentless spirit, his refusal to bend no matter how cruel the world became.
It reminded him of home.
"I'm... gonna make everyone happier," Asta continued, breath puffing weak clouds into the air. "So we can have nicer things! And I'm gonna prove to everyone—"
Yuno and Xierra stared at him.
For a minute, disbelief stole the warmth from their faces. Xierra wondered distantly if he had struck his head harder than she'd thought, despite the snow's deceptive softness. Maybe the damage ran deeper. Maybe the cold had finally dulled his sense.
Or maybe—quietly, desperately—they just wanted to believe him.
Asta met their gazes without flinching.
There was no uncertainty there. No doubt.
Only truth.
His smile widened, brilliant and unguarded, as if he alone could chase away the oppressive gray weighing down the sky. For a fleeting moment, the cold receded. The snow didn't sting as sharply. The clouds above seemed thinner, almost fragile.
"...that even if you're poor," he said softly, "...even if you're an orphan—"
Xierra's breath caught.
The word sank into her chest, heavy and familiar. She had never learned to hate it—not fully. To do so would mean hating herself, hating Yuno, hating the life they had known since their earliest memories.
Still, it hurt.
No parents. No inheritance. No certainty that anyone had ever searched for them.
The thought lingered, as it always did: What if they hadn't been wanted?
Father Orsi and Sister Lily had reassured them countless times, wrapping those doubts in warmth and care—but some questions refused to fade entirely.
Asta lifted his fist, trembling as he raised it skyward. The motion was weak, unsteady—yet somehow, it felt monumental.
"...you can still become the Wizard King."
The words were quiet. But they carried weight.
They settled into Xierra's chest and bloomed there, warm and steady, filling the hollow spaces she hadn't realized were still aching. Her throat tightened, emotion swelling until it blurred the edges of her vision.
Slowly, she understood.
They weren't lacking. Not really.
Father Orsi and Sister Lily had given them more than most ever would—safety, love, and a place to belong. They were enough. They were enough.
And maybe there wasn't only one sun in the sky.
Maybe warmth came in many forms.
Stars. Comets. Moons. Small lights that burned stubbornly against the dark.
Xierra turned to Yuno.
The heaviness in her expression eased, replaced by something soft and luminous. A smile curved her lips—gentle, sincere. Yuno blinked, then returned it, amber eyes bright despite the cold.
That's right, she thought, holding onto that fragile warmth. We can still dream.
To Be Continued...