ATLAS POV.
"An enemy attack? They made it to the first floor… straight for the Young Master?"
The report crackled through the link, tight with panic.
"There's only one possible conclusion. This isn't an ordinary Dark Star."
The line went dead instantly.
I didn't hesitate. The moment the message ended, I abandoned the Sarrion Dynasty and shifted course for Raja. No farewells or explanations, just movement. The kind that comes when instinct moves faster than thought.
By the time I arrived at the kingdom's borders, something felt… wrong.
Raja stood exactly as it always did—walls intact, towers unbroken. But the life that should have filled its streets was gone. No merchants, no guards or demons at their posts. It was silent, the kind that presses against your ears until it feels like the world itself is holding its breath.
I stepped forward slowly, boots touching the stone road with a dull echo that travelled far too easily through the empty streets. No smoke curled into the sky. No signs of battle scarred the buildings. Everything looked… untouched, which only made it worse.
My gaze swept across the deserted avenue, senses stretching outward, searching for anything—mana residue, lingering auras, even the faintest trace of movement. But nothing was found. That alone confirmed it.
Whoever had done this didn't need chaos. They didn't need fire or spectacle. They had walked into Raja like ghosts and erased its presence from the inside.
Despite no residue around me, one place held the most disturbing aura I've ever sensed. It wasn't just pressing, it a force the played with death at it's fingertips.
But I didn't freak out. I'm here to face whomever is radiating that aura.
Within the queen's domain, something alien pressed against my senses—heavy and eliberate. It didn't bother masking itself. If anything, the presence pulsed as if to say I'm here. Come find me.
I chose a portal instead of the door. No need to play along with anyone bearing that monstrous signature.
The gate opened across the hall. As my right foot crossed the threshold—a violent tremor tore through my skull. There was no warning, no build-up. Just a sharp vibration, followed by silence as my head burst apart.
My body dropped where it stood, collapsing with a dull thud against the floor. No blood, just a corpse that hadn't realised it was one.
…What kind of technique was that? I hadn't seen it, hadn't sensed it, hadn't even had the chance to resist.
My awareness slipped free, untethered from flesh.
For a moment there was no weight, or breath, only the quiet clarity of my archetypal form.
So that's how you're playing this.
I drifted above the scene, observing.
My vessel lay still, but my consciousness had already reanchored. With that connection restored, rebuilding the body would be trivial. Annoying, but trivial.
"You can't hide forever."
A voice carried itself through the chamber, steady with authority.
I'd misjudged the moment I arrived. It had happened in less than a heartbeat, faster than instinct and thought. Which meant whoever was here hadn't been waiting for an entrance.
They'd been waiting for me.
Corpses littered the ground, a grim tapestry of demon and human flesh alike. Standing atop the mound was a lone figure dressed in flowing white, his face hidden behind a golden scale mask. A long black ponytail swayed gently in the breeze, trailing down his back like a shadow.
In his right hand, he held Eto's unconscious body as if he weighed nothing, his hand clutching the Dagger still warm from battle.
The gash on the invader's stomach disappeared in the blink of an eye. More like it glitched out.
"This presence… a Star."
He said it with a low, almost reverent disbelief, as though the words tasted bitter in his mouth.
Eto was nothing to him—he flung him aside without even sparing a glance, the body skidding across the floor like discarded clutter. Then his attention settled on me.
Even in this state, formless, abstract and unbound—he found me. His gaze cut through the empty space and locked onto the core of my existence as if he could see every layer I'd tried to keep buried.
That wasn't normal. A chill ran through me, but I don't need to panic.
"Who are you?"
I asked.
"Who I am doesn't matter. I'm not here for a conversation either."
He replied dismissively, a mark of a being well‑trained, one who placed duty above all else.
"Where's the Queen?"
The Queen? Lady Towa?
So that was it. He came for her… while the other went for the Young Master.
Eto did well to hide her better than I expected. Still, the question lingered in the back of my mind like a splinter—why come all the way to this world for a mere human?
"You'll have to go through me to get that information."
My consciousness slipped back into my vessel, settling into flesh and bone like stepping into a familiar coat.
The damage sealed almost instantly, skin knitting, structure restoring. Breath, weight and control returned immediately.
"Wrath."
The word left my mouth in a low cant, and the air around me answered.
Death gathered—thick, suffocating, clinging to my form like a second skin. It bled from my pores, coiling and pulsing, turning the space around us stale and heavy.
There was no point in dragging this out. No point in holding back either. A prolonged fight here would only end badly for me.
"Perish."
I raised a finger and fired.
A spear of condensed death tore forward, straight for his head. A clean, direct attack meant to end things before they began.
He avoided it without even shifting his stance, just his head tilting to the side. I clicked my tongue under my breath.
"I'm not done yet. Explode… devour."
The spear burst apart mid-flight, blooming into a dense cloud of death before collapsing inward onto him, latching to his form like a starving thing finally fed.
It clung and consumed, seeking to rot through everything it touched.
He didn't scream. He didn't even flinch as finality tore through him.
"This is different from Jagarette's corrosion."
He said from behind the mask, voice quieter now, more focused.
"This… is death."
Someone who understood Arts far too well—enough to recognise each one the moment it formed.
He stepped forward, yet he never moved.
The cloak he'd left behind drifted where he'd stood, then shrivelled, its fabric collapsing into black ash that scattered and faded from existence—killed by the death meant for him.
Presence alone had deceived fate, even death struck shadows in his shape.
'He's fast. But I wasn't targeting his physical body. He was affected but appeared unharmed.'
"That cloak was older than you, you know."
He said, snapping his fingers.
A sword settled into his palm as if it had always belonged there, as if it had been waiting for that exact moment to exist.
There was no warning or magical build-up. Just a single, clean flash and the world split.
I felt it before I understood it—my body parting down the middle, the cut so precise there wasn't even pain at first. The structure behind me vanished with the same stroke, erased in a silent line that stretched far beyond where we stood.
"Be honoured."
He said, already turning away, voice flat with certainty.
"I pulled my sword on you."
He walked like it was finished. Like I was already a memory.
But death didn't take me, it refused.
Something cold and familiar wrapped around what was left of me, holding the halves together, refusing to let them fall apart completely. The darkness clung, stubborn and patient, knitting what should have been the end into something unfinished.
"Not so fast."
The voice cut through the haze.
"Crimson Waves."
Red thorns erupted from the ground, jagged and wild, shooting toward him from every direction.
He leapt, twisting mid-air, and for the first time looked up—only to see the ceiling bleeding, crimson droplets raining down like a storm of metal and iron. He was trapped, every exit blocked, every angle covered.
A single drop splashed against his mask, sizzling as it dissolved the foreign layer that had coated it.
Reflexively, he twisted, descending through the chaos, dodging the most immediate thorns with uncanny precision.
But the branches weren't done—new thorns sprouted from the old, writhing, shifting, always reaching for him.
"Your chance of escaping is zero."
The voice rang out cold, confident, as if counting his fate before it even happened.
Then it happened—he stumbled. A spike tore through his arm, ripping flesh and tendon. He froze mid-motion, staring at the damage, the pain sharp and immediate.
The thorns around him hesitated, suspended in mid-air as if sensing the pause. A low vibration hummed through the ground and air, similar to what I've felt moments ago.
And just like that, they vanished. All of them, gone, leaving nothing but silence and the taste of iron lingering in the air.
"Heh?"
Shocked, I landed hard, the impact rattling through me—but by the time my feet hit the ground, my body had already healed, whole and ready.
"What's going on, Lord Atlas?"
The reinforcement's voice cracked slightly, betraying the shock he tried to mask.
He stood beside me, posture tight, crimson eyes locked on the target, unable to hide the unease that ran through him.
'That's no Star. How can a being from another world potentially leave a mark on my mask, one forged from the First King's scale?'
(Permit me.)
"Honestly, I don't know. They just...disappeared."
I don't understand how energy or that craps work like Elaine so it's obvious i won't know the mechanisms behind his Art.
"What did you use just now. That's..."
"Yes. I'm not good at it but that's one of the blessing the Supreme Monarch gave me."
He looked at me before focusing on the enemy.
"A demon from the Cardinal World. Nah… you're no longer a demon. You're just an experimental subject."
The words cut through the air, cold and sharp, as our enemy's gaze settled on Scarlet King.
Each syllable was measured, like a predator sizing up its prey, calculating every flaw, every hidden strength.
"Your name?"
He spoke firmly.
"I am Scarlet King, a being of unfathomable potential, the Supreme Monarch's Guardian."
Even standing before a Nebula-level threat, Scarlet King didn't flinch. There was no hesitation or fear. His loyalty and his fear of the Young Master alone forged the steel in his heart, and that was the source of his courage.
The enemy remained still, waiting. Perhaps… waiting for me to speak.
"Atlas, servant of the Curse Lord."
"Curse Lord, Alnath."
He murmured the name, stripped of all honorifics, his tone sharp and deliberate.
"Fine then. I shall introduce myself. I am Spectre… the First."
The words fell like ice, deliberate and heavy, carrying the weight of a presence that made the air itself tense.
'First? So there are more? If he's the first, the one who attacked the master isn't that strong?'
The chilling realisation struck me.
"So, you are stronger than the one who attacked the Young Master?"
"Jagarette is nothing but a child."
He replied.
"I won't get carried away by your meaningless distraction."
He raised his hand to attack and as if time was rewound, his hand dropped without his control. He pressed the confusion and wait for a counter.
Scarlet immediately took the lead, the red aura took shape in his hand and he fired.
"Red Burst."
A beam of searing light shot straight at Spectre. Instantly, he shifted into a defensive stance, the air around him vibrating with tension.
A mirror manifested before him, catching the explosion and reflecting the Red Burst—its speed amplified, a storm of energy hurtling back.
I braced, cloaking myself in death, but Scarlet lagged, just a fraction too slow. His cloak couldn't withstand it, and his body bore the brunt of the reflected strike, bruised and scorched.
"That's no ordinary…"
I forced open the cocoon of death around me, only to stop mid-thought, frozen.
The reddish particles from the Red Burst lingered, immune to my control, swirling like embers that refused to die.
'How… how is Scarlet utilising this power?x
I lifted my gaze, Spectre's clothes were singed, his mirror shattered, and the Red Burst still crackled in the space where it had struck. Everything had shifted in an instant, leaving nothing normal about this battlefield.
'But how?'
"You reflected it… I copied and pasted it back. It's a sure hit, so you can't block it."
Scarlet's voice cut through my thoughts, calm, almost casual—as if he could hear the calculations running through my mind.
'Sure hit? A probability manipulation art?'
My mind raced. Every scenario, every variable I had considered just shifted. Scarlet wasn't just strong… he was thinking two steps ahead, bending certainty itself.
'Certainly Extraction. It steals the probability of one event and applies it to another. Reflecting Red Burst was his mistake. Red Burst is a two-stage attack— naturally, it shouldn't be able to harm him.
But multiplying and redirecting it? That just increased the hit rate. And now, with the second stage released and channelling it back, Certainly Extraction is fully active. And the probability of hitting him just spiked beyond normal limits.'
"My clothes… the King's attire. Unforgivable."
The words dripped with annoyance, each syllable a warning more than a complaint.
Spectre descended, facing us head-on, two against one, the air around him thick with intent.
His speed had been otherworldly from the start of the battle, but now… it had grown. Every movement was a blur, leaving our attacks slicing empty space.
None of our strikes connected, as if we were punching ghosts, while his presence dominated the battlefield with merciless precision.
My body was getting worn out from death but I paid no attention and kept using both mid, long and close-range projectiles and attacks. Scarlet on the other hand was facing him one-on-one, his fist glowing red as they exchanged punches.
With his probability manipulation activating randomly, he was able to deliver some punches.
He had a plan but it was a dangerous one. Which is why I was the support waiting for the right moment.
'Forgive me Supreme Monarch. This is the only way to win. Now that I have enough reserves of the Supreme Monarch energy, I'll do it, I can use Even Denial.'
After backing him up for a while, I noticed his movement became sluggish. This was the signal.
"Necrotic Grasp, Lord of Death."
With the battlefield filled with corpses, they all rose, possessed by me, the Lord of Death.
"Release."
With the ability to die once more on my command, I released their undead dead aura filling the hall.
I was struggling to maintain it while keeping it confined within this hall alone. If I mistakenly let loose, all will perish both the living and the dead.
Scarlet King's body was crumbling by the second. The corpses were gone. I, the caster, was being eaten away by death around me as death filled the hall.
Had it not been for Scarlet, Spectre would've gotten rid of me because he too, was suffering from this phenomenon.
"Enough!"
He roared, the sound deep and resonant, shaking the very air around us. The vibration clawed at the edges of reality itself.
Scarlet King staggered, his form flickering, no longer whole—reality itself seemed to reject him, tearing at his existence.
Spectre charged, a blur of motion and intent, eyes locked on me. I let it loose—the culmination of every ounce of control, every fragment of power I could muster—pouring it forward in a single, unstoppable release.
"Abnormal Death!"
The power… the ability to wield death itself to summon greater death, erupted from me. It wasn't catastrophic with a vessel, but it would buy time, and that was enough.
"Event Denial."
Scarlet whispered, and the effect was instantaneous.
This wasn't some flashy skill, no explosion or cinematic flare. He wasn't attacking—it was containment, an Art that restrained death itself, freezing it within the battlefield's tight confines.
Anything within that space simply lost its reason to exist.
Spectre's form vanished, fading into the air. The hall became null, a hollow shell of reality. Scarlet's form flickered, pieces of him unraveling faster than I could track, and even I felt myself beginning to disintegrate, my vessel failing around me.
"H… he's gone."
We had succeeded, but at a terrible cost.
Our vessels, the forms we relied on, were slowly disintegrating. But I didn't care. Lady Towa was safe—that was all that mattered.
I blinked, and the world froze. Scarlet too, suspended mid-disintegration. And then… there he was.
Standing perfectly still, pristine and untouched. His wounds healed, his presence absolute—but the cloak was gone.
"H… how?"
"Spectre is an illusionist. What are probability and death manipulation without a stable reality?"
He replied.
Scarlet had no answer. His body continued to unravel around him, a storm of dissolution, while the truth of Spectre's manipulation pressed down like a weight we couldn't hope to lift.
"Illusion?"
"Yes, you did bring an end to everything within this vicinity. I simply swapped reality with my illusion. As expected, you can't do much without your true body."
He spread his fingers toward me, and the air itself seemed to hum, vibrating with a presence that clawed at my mind.
My vision blurred, my senses tore, and then… there was nothing.
THIRD POV
His consciousness slipped away like sand through his fingers. He should have drifted back to his conceptual form, to his True Body reassembling as it always did, but there was no sensation of return. No pull, no anchor. Just silence and emptiness.
To be continued...