The mage's body lay where it had fallen.
Not collapsed, not twisted—simply stilled, as if death had arrived with quiet certainty and no need for excess. His eyes were half-open, unfocused, reflecting nothing. The blood pooling beneath him had begun to cool, its dark sheen catching the dim remnants of dying sigils carved into the stone floor.
Those sigils flickered.
Once, twice.
Then failed.
The last protection vanished—not with a sound, but with a sensation, like the pressure change before a storm. The air inside the ruined shelter lost its warmth, its purpose, its memory of being shaped by human will.
The mage was gone.
And with him, the future he had tried to guard.
The ritual circle fractured.
Lines of light snapped apart, recoiling inward as if ashamed to persist without their creator. From the broken geometry rose the seven Class Cards, no longer restrained by spell or oath. They did not ascend together. Each tore itself free at its own pace, dragging the weight of an unopened era behind it.
They hovered above the corpse.
Judging.
Waiting.
The figures surrounding the circle shed all pretense of humanity.
The Seven Sins had worn human shapes for convenience—voices that blended, movements that passed unnoticed. Now, they stood revealed, their presences sharpened, refined, no longer pretending to belong.
They were not heroes.
They were corruptions sent ahead of a sealed world, parasites designed to rot mankind until the barrier weakened from within.
And now—
The keys were theirs.
Pride moved first.
He stepped forward with measured precision, boots clicking softly against the stone, posture immaculate despite the chaos surrounding him. His attire was layered in black and gold, ornate without being excessive, as if wealth and authority were not decorations but inevitabilities.
He did not reach greedily.
The Archer card responded to him on its own.
The moment it aligned with his presence, fractures of molten gold spread across its surface. Space behind him warped—not opening, but acknowledging. Countless invisible apertures pressed against reality, each one heavy with the promise of ownership.
The concept of "mine" rewrote itself.
Pride closed his fingers.
The card embedded into his palm.
The ground bowed.
Not from force—but recognition.
Wrath laughed.
He lunged forward, snatching the Lancer card as if daring the world to resist him. The moment contact was made, causality screamed—a shrill, tearing sound that echoed through the ruins and far beyond them.
Wrath's body convulsed.
Veins lit up beneath his skin like burning runes as survival beyond reason flooded his flesh. Death recoiled—not pushed back, but confused, unable to determine where to strike.
Wrath steadied himself, breathing hard.
"Good," he spat. "Now it can try."
Sloth barely acknowledged the Rider card.
It drifted toward him slowly, lazily, as if burdened by its own movement. When it settled against his chest, the air thickened, sound dulling, motion losing urgency.
Time itself seemed reluctant to proceed.
The stone beneath Sloth's feet darkened, faint veins spreading outward like petrification creeping across the world. He exhaled, shoulders sagging further.
"Finally," he murmured. "An excuse."
Lust approached the Caster card with reverence.
Her fingers traced its surface gently, almost lovingly. The instant contact was made, invisible bounded fields unfolded around her—territories defined by intent rather than space. The air shimmered, layered with unseen rules waiting to be declared.
Knowledge poured in.
Contracts. Rituals. Sacrifices disguised as affection.
She smiled.
The world felt observed.
Greed could not wait.
He seized the Berserker card, and for a fraction of a second, his body rejected it violently. Bones cracked audibly. Muscles tore and rebuilt themselves in grotesque succession, adapting to an endurance that did not end.
Pain ceased to matter.
Limits vanished.
Greed inhaled deeply, chest expanding far beyond natural measure.
"More," he whispered.
Envy lingered before the Assassin card.
When he finally touched it, his form fractured.
Faces overlapped. Shadows peeled away and returned incorrectly. His outline flickered, uncertain, as if reality could no longer agree on who—or what—he was.
Somewhere nearby, a heartbeat stopped.
No one noticed.
Envy tilted his head.
"So many choices," he murmured.
Six cards claimed.
The seventh remained.
The Saber card hovered alone.
Perfect.
Untouched.
It did not pulse with raw power like the others. Instead, it radiated pressure—authority compressed into a singular point, heavy enough to crush the unworthy. It did not call.
It judged.
Even Pride did not move.
Then Gluttony stepped forward.
His armor was pale and battered, scarred by battles that history had never recorded. His eyes were hollow, not from sorrow, but from exhaustion—the weariness of someone who had taken too much upon himself and could not stop.
He did not hunger for power.
He hungered for meaning.
"I'll take it," he said quietly.
Lust turned sharply. "You'll break."
"I know."
Wrath scoffed. "Then don't."
Gluttony shook his head.
"Someone has to carry everything."
He knelt.
The moment his hand extended, the Saber card erupted in golden light.
A phantom blade manifested behind him—noble, restrained, unbearably heavy. The pressure forced the others to their knees as the world itself screamed in protest.
For a heartbeat—
The card resisted.
Then it embedded itself into his chest.
Gluttony screamed.
Not in pain.
But in excess.
The final lock shattered.
Pandora's Box was opened completely.
Across the sky, ancient lines of the barrier fractured—gold and black spreading like cracks through glass. The seal did not break outright, but it was no longer whole.
The Demon Realm noticed.
And it waited.
Far away, a boy collapsed.
The Eighth Card burned against his chest as knowledge slammed into him—not as visions, but as absence. A hollow where guidance had once existed.
The mage was dead.
Seven stolen futures now walked the world.
He pressed his forehead into the dirt, fingers digging in until they bled.
"You said… I wouldn't be alone."
No answer came.
Across the land, the consequences began quietly.
People felt urges sharpen.
Fear spread without cause.
Small sins multiplied, not by choice—but by suggestion.
The Seven turned away from the ruins.
Their work had begun.
The boy stood.
His body trembled.
His resolve did not.
If the world would be devoured by stolen heroes—
Then he would become something that could not be claimed.
The Eighth Card pulsed faintly.
Waiting.