The sky fractured.
Not literally.
Not visually.
But something in the air snapped like the city had insulted the wrong part of reality and now reality wanted to see paperwork.
Spell circles spun.
Holy scripture blazed.
Mercenary cannons roared.
Authority screamed.
And Ardent smiled.
Not kindly.
Not soft.
Beautiful.
Horrifying.
Artistic.
"Watch closely," he said without turning, voice velvet cruelty. "This is how a wish granter fights."
Liora, bleeding and barely conscious beneath cover across the plaza, forced her eyes open.
She shouldn't be awake.
But she refused to miss this.
Ardent lifted his hand.
He did not cast.
He listened.
Wishes.
So many.
From the enemy.
"I wish this would work."
"I wish he wasn't this strong."
"I wish magic obeyed rules."
"I wish the city wins."
"I wish to be remembered as a hero."
"I wish—"
He caught them.
Like moths in gold-gloved fingers.
And twisted.
Valeron Thane raised his staff.
A perfect lattice of mathematics and law tightened.
"Reality—obey—"
"I wish reality followed predictable models."
Ardent granted it.
For Valeron.
Only for him.
His spells locked into utter rigidity.
The city wasn't rigid.
Magic wasn't rigid.
Reality breathed.
His didn't.
It shattered.
Valeron screamed not in pain—but in humiliation.
Ardent chuckled.
"One."
Bishop Halix raised blessed seals.
"Divine authority compels—"
"I wish God would favor us."
Ardent granted it.
For Halix.
His blessings rerouted.
Straight into the terrified civilians praying honestly nearby.
The bishop's holy field died.
A grandmother shielding children glowed like sunfire.
A street preacher started crying.
A terrified butcher healed three strangers with a prayer.
Halix went ice white.
Ardent's smile sharpened.
"Two."
Captain Rhaas charged laughing.
"LET'S DANCE—!!"
"I wish I feel nothing."
Ardent granted it.
The mercenary lunged with perfect speed.
Perfect strength.
Perfect control.
Then didn't react
to his own arm breaking,
to spell backlash boiling through his nerves,
to agony shredding muscle.
He didn't scream.
He didn't feel.
He just fell.
Ardent flicked him aside like a broken toy.
"Three."
It kept going.
A shield mage wished to be indestructible.
He became so hard his joints wouldn't move and collapsed, a living statue.
A cleric wished not to doubt.
He lost fear—
lost hesitation—
lost self-preservation—
walked forward confidently
and collapsed unconscious.
A strategist wished the plan would unfold as intended.
It did.
Right into failure.
Ardent walked through it like a storm wearing silk.
Every spell the enemy cast was their own desire turned inside-out.
Every prayer was weaponized truth.
Every intention became punishment.
Liora watched with wide, horrified fascination.
She learned.
He wanted her to.
"Remember," Ardent called gently, like teaching a child letters. "Combat wishcraft is not kindness. It is surgery."
He snapped his fingers.
"On the liar."
A council mage begging for power screamed as his illusions collapsed not outward—
—but inward.
Forced to see himself.
He broke.
"All power is borrowed," Ardent said softly. "And the universe always notices interest payments."
He looked skyward.
Reality tried to resist.
He laughed at it.
Demons whispered.
Devils admired.
Saints looked away.
This was why everything feared Fae at war:
They did not crush enemies.
They corrected them.
Meanwhile…
Aiden ran.
Hallways blurred.
Guards lunged.
He fought.
Training kept him alive.
Instinct guided him.
Fear drove him.
He didn't want to kill.
So he didn't.
Barely.
A knife spun—he twisted.
Disarmed.
Disabled.
A mage lunged—he slammed them into a wall.
Hard but survivable.
A spear came for his chest—he ducked, swept a leg.
Every move efficient.
Desperate.
Unthinking.
Not graceful—
determined.
They shouted orders.
"He's moving—!"
"Contain him—!"
"DO NOT KILL—!"
Even now.
They didn't want him dead.
They wanted ownership.
He hated that more than the danger.
He slammed into a reinforced holding door and felt Seris on the other side.
Fear.
Cold.
Controlled.
Burning slow.
He pressed his forehead to the steel.
"I'm here."
Inside—
she exhaled.
Just once.
Like she'd been holding her breath for hours.
He stepped back.
Magic flickered along his fingertips.
Not wishpower.
Normal, hard-earned magic.
The kind he bled and sweat for.
He shaped it.
Focused it.
Failed twice.
Screamed once.
Then—
it worked.
The door cracked.
Alarms wept.
The men who wanted to own the world realized:
They had severely underestimated affection.
Back in the plaza
Ardent's magic dimmed.
The battlefield was quiet.
Those who could flee fled.
Those who could kneel knelt.
Those who thought themselves titans learned humility so sharp it bled.
He exhaled.
"Thus ends your lesson," he murmured to the city. "Class dismissed."
He turned.
His eyes went soft again.
Tired.
Human almost.
He looked toward where Liora lay fading.
He looked toward where Aiden ran screaming at the world to let him keep what he loved.
And he whispered to himself:
"…my time is almost up."
And he stepped forward again anyway.