He did not make it far.
The village fell away behind him in fragments—broken roofs, scorched timbers, and silence that felt too deliberate to be natural. Dawn crawled across the sky in pale streaks of gold and grey, but the light brought no comfort. Every step sent dull shockwaves through his body, pain blooming and receding in slow pulses that matched his heartbeat.
His body was failing.
He could feel it clearly now.
Muscles responded a fraction too late. Breath burned too quickly. Blood loss dragged at the edges of his vision like a curtain threatening to fall. The Archer card lay dormant against his chest, cracked and unstable, its presence no longer empowering but warning.
You cannot do that again.
He knew.
Envy knew too.
That was the worst part.
It was there—not as pressure, not as a whisper, but as absence. As a hollow space where certainty should have been. Every shadow seemed slightly misaligned with its source. Every reflection in puddles lagged half a heartbeat behind reality.
He did not look back.
That denial alone tasted like defiance.
The road narrowed as it climbed into broken highlands, the earth rising in jagged slabs of stone and half-dead grass. The land here had known war long before Sins walked it openly. Craters scarred the hills like open wounds. Ancient pillars lay shattered and half-buried, their inscriptions ground away by time and indifference.
The wind cut colder here.
He stopped when the ground trembled.
At first, it was subtle—a low vibration, almost mistaken for distant thunder. Pebbles rattled near his boots. Dust slid from cracks in the stone. He froze, senses sharpening despite exhaustion.
Then the tremor deepened.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Each impact came from below, heavy enough to reverberate through his bones. The air thickened—not distorted by illusion, not bent by magecraft—but compressed by raw, brutal presence.
This was not subtle.
This was not patient.
This was Wrath.
The ground ahead split apart violently, stone screaming as it tore itself open. A shockwave rippled outward, forcing him to brace or be thrown aside. From the ruptured earth, a figure rose—not summoned, not revealed, but unleashed.
Wrath stood tall amid the wreckage.
He was enormous—broad-shouldered, thick-limbed, built like something forged rather than born. His armor was ancient and brutal, overlapping plates scarred by countless battles. Every dent told a story of survival through sheer refusal to fall. It did not gleam; it absorbed light, swallowing it into dark metal streaked with dried blood and ash.
In his hands rested a spear.
Long.
Heavy.
Its shaft was dark, etched with runes that glowed faintly like embers trapped beneath cooling iron. The spearhead was narrow and merciless, designed not for flourish but for killing blows—precision over spectacle.
His hair was iron-grey, bound loosely behind his head, strands whipping in the wind stirred by his own presence. His face was a map of violence: scars crossing scars, some healed crookedly, others barely faded. His eyes burned red—not wild, not feral, but disciplined rage, the kind that had learned to wait.
Wrath did not shout.
He did not roar.
He simply existed, and the world bent around that fact.
"So," he rumbled, voice deep enough to vibrate stone. "You're the one."
The boy straightened despite the pain, despite the protest screaming through every nerve. Grey threaded his hair more clearly now, catching the thin morning light. His eyes were calm—not fearless, but resolved.
"Depends," he replied evenly. "Who's asking?"
Wrath's mouth twitched—not a smile, but something close to anticipation.
"The one who's tired of waiting."
He drove the spear into the ground.
The impact was catastrophic.
Stone exploded outward in a violent shockwave, the force ripping across the terrain like a hammer to glass. The boy was thrown off his feet, body lifted and hurled backward despite his attempt to brace. He crashed hard, skidding across shattered rock, breath torn violently from his lungs.
Before he could recover—
Wrath was already moving.
The spear screamed through the air, faster than something that size had any right to be. Instinct took over. He traced—steel folding into existence in his hand just in time to intercept the blow.
The impact shattered the weapon instantly.
Pain detonated up his arms as he was flung aside, boots carving trenches into the dirt as he barely stayed upright. The spear followed, relentless, crushing, every strike carrying killing intent refined by centuries of violence.
Wrath advanced without haste.
"You reek of hesitation," he said, each word landing like a judgment. "Of doubt."
Another step.
The pressure intensified, pressing down on the boy's chest until breathing felt like defiance.
"You fight like someone who still believes he has a choice."
The boy gritted his teeth and moved.
Blades manifested in rapid succession—short swords, longswords, curved edges, straight thrusting forms—cycling through weights and balances as he tested angles, ranges, timing.
Nothing worked.
Wrath swatted them aside with contemptuous ease, the spear moving with brutal efficiency. No wasted motion. No flourish. Every attack was a lesson in superiority.
Then one slipped through.
The spear's shaft slammed into the boy's ribs.
The force folded him in half.
Something cracked—audibly.
He was sent flying, crashing into a stone outcrop hard enough to split it. His vision flashed white, then red, then nearly black.
Wrath did not rush him.
He waited.
The boy dragged himself upright, blood soaking into his clothes, breath ragged and shallow. His reflection flickered briefly in a shard of stone—older, greyer, thinner.
Too soon.
The shadows stretched.
Wrath's eyes flicked sideways.
"Stop hiding," he said flatly.
The air shifted.
A ripple passed through the shadows, subtle but unmistakable. The boy felt it—the familiar cold alignment, the sense of being weighed and found lacking.
Envy was there.
Watching.
Judging.
Wrath snorted. "You promised me a challenge."
The shadows did not answer.
The boy staggered forward, refusing to fall, even as blood dripped freely onto the stone.
"This isn't your fight alone," he rasped.
Wrath's gaze snapped back to him, burning brighter.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
He lunged.
The world became motion and pain.
The spear tore through space where the boy's head had been a moment before. He rolled, traced, fired—arrows of compressed mana screaming toward Wrath only to be shattered mid-flight with casual, almost bored swipes of the spear.
Wrath struck him again.
And again.
Each blow drove him closer to collapse. His movements slowed. His reactions dulled. The Archer card stirred weakly, unstable, as if warning him that forcing it again would destroy what little remained.
A crushing blow sent him skidding across stone toward a sheer drop. Loose gravel spilled into the ravine below, vanishing into mist and darkness.
Wrath loomed over him.
"Get up," he commanded.
The boy tried.
His body refused.
The shadows lengthened behind Wrath, thickening, hungry. He felt Envy's attention sharpen, eager for the moment comparison finally broke him.
He laughed weakly, blood at his lips.
"So this is how you work together," he murmured. "One breaks the body. The other waits for the mind."
Wrath's grip tightened.
"Stand," he said again—angrier now.
The boy pressed one trembling hand into the stone, fingers digging deep despite the pain. His vision blurred. His body screamed.
But something else stirred.
Not borrowed memory.
Not future strength.
Conviction.
"I'm not done," he whispered.
Wrath raised the spear.
Envy leaned closer.
And somewhere, deep within the boy's fractured resolve, a name brushed the edge of his thoughts—radiant, heavy, unyielding.
Not yet.
The spear descended
The spear stopped a breath from his skull.
Not because Wrath hesitated.
Because something else moved first.
The shadows surged.
They did not leap or strike. They slid, flowing like spilled ink across the stone, rising in thin, twisting sheets that wrapped around Wrath's arm and spear—not to restrain, but to redirect.
The spear's path bent.
It screamed past the boy's head and buried itself deep into the cliffside behind him, the impact detonating stone into a cloud of dust and shrapnel.
The boy collapsed onto his side, gasping, vision swimming.
He hadn't dodged.
He hadn't blocked.
Envy had interfered.
Wrath turned slowly, eyes burning.
"Don't touch my strike," he growled.
The shadows peeled back, coalescing several paces away. A figure emerged—not fully solid, not fully illusion.
Envy finally chose to be seen.
He was lean where Wrath was massive, tall but narrow, his frame wrapped in dark, layered garments that shifted subtly even when he stood still. His hair was jet black, cut unevenly, strands falling into sharp, intelligent eyes that reflected light like polished glass.
His face was… unremarkable.
Not beautiful. Not ugly.
The kind of face that became memorable only after it had ruined you.
"You would have killed him too quickly," Envy replied softly, voice smooth and precise. "That would defeat the point."
Wrath's grip tightened around the spear embedded in stone. Veins bulged along his forearms.
"You said he was interesting."
Envy smiled faintly.
"He is. That's why I want him broken properly."
The boy forced himself upright on one elbow, blood dripping from his chin onto the fractured ground. His ears rang, but he caught every word.
So this was the arrangement.
Wrath crushed him.
Envy hollowed him out.
Together.
Wrath wrenched the spear free from the cliff with a thunderous crack, stone tearing loose around it. He turned his full attention back to the boy.
"Get up," he said again.
Envy's gaze slid toward the boy, head tilting slightly, as if studying a flawed reflection.
"You should listen," Envy added. "If you stay down, you won't learn anything."
The boy laughed weakly.
It came out wet.
"Funny," he rasped. "I was just thinking the same thing."
He pushed himself to his feet.
Pain screamed in protest. One rib was definitely broken—maybe more. His left arm trembled violently, fingers barely responding. His legs felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.
But he stood.
Wrath's mouth curled into something like approval.
Envy's eyes narrowed.
The ground shifted.
Not shattered—tilted.
The boy stumbled as his sense of balance betrayed him, the horizon skewing unnaturally. His instincts screamed wrong, but there was no illusion to dispel, no magecraft to cut through.
Envy hadn't altered reality.
He'd altered him.
His perception lagged, timing slipping by half a heartbeat. Wrath exploited it instantly.
The spear came in low.
Too fast.
The boy traced on instinct—steel forming just in time to parry—
—and Envy stepped behind him.
The world blinked.
For the briefest instant, the boy saw himself from the outside—saw Wrath's spear punch through where his chest would have been if Envy hadn't twisted his awareness.
The backlash hit immediately.
His body rejected the contradiction.
Pain exploded behind his eyes as his magic circuits misfired, blood spraying from his mouth as he staggered back.
Wrath did not stop.
The spear struck again.
And again.
Each blow forced the boy to react wrong—too early, too late, just slightly off. His traced weapons shattered faster now, forming sloppily under stress. His footing collapsed as Envy subtly shifted depth and distance, turning solid ground treacherous.
"Do you see it yet?" Envy asked calmly, circling. "He is stronger than you. I am smarter than you."
Wrath drove the spear down.
The boy barely rolled aside, the impact gouging a crater where his spine had been moments before.
"You cannot beat both," Envy continued. "Not like this."
The boy dragged himself upright again, breathing ragged, blood soaking into the dirt beneath his boots.
"I'm starting," he said hoarsely, "to get the picture."
Wrath advanced.
Envy closed in from the opposite side.
Two Sins.
Two pressures.
One body already at its limit.
And still—
The boy raised his head.
His eyes burned—not with borrowed heroism, not with future memory—
—but with stubborn clarity.
"Then stop talking," he said, voice shaking but steady, "and finish it."
Wrath grinned.
Envy's smile finally faded.
And the real hunt began.
Wrath did not announce it.
He simply shifted his grip.
That was all.
But the moment his hand tightened around the spear, the boy felt it—
causality twisting.
Not mana pressure.
Not killing intent.
Something worse.
The world subtly realigned, as if the outcome had already been decided and reality was merely catching up.
Wrath lowered the spear.
"You die," he said calmly.
"Not because I strike you—
but because you already have."
The runes along the spear ignited blood-red.
Wrath invoked his Noble Phantasm.
The spear vanished.
Not moved.
Not thrown.
Vanished.
The boy's heart convulsed.
Pain detonated in his chest as the truth asserted itself—
the spear was already there.
Inside him.
Not piercing flesh, but fate.
His vision exploded into white as causality inverted—cause bending to effect, reality rewriting itself to justify the inevitable.
At the same instant—
The shadow behind him moved.
Envy stepped out of it, closer than distance should allow.
No sound.
No warning.
A pale, gaunt hand plunged forward.
Not toward flesh—
toward the soul.
Envy's Noble Phantasm activated.
Zabaniya.
The world narrowed to a single sensation as spectral fingers phased through ribs, through bone, through muscle—closing around something that was not entirely physical.
His heart.
Not the organ.
The concept.
"I wonder," Envy whispered softly, lips near his ear,
"which version of you deserves to keep beating."
The boy choked.
His knees hit the ground.
Wrath's causality tightened.
Envy's grip closed.
Two deaths overlapped.
One inevitable.
One intimate.
This was not a battle.
This was an execution performed from two directions.
Weapons refused to trace.
Muscles failed to respond.
Even borrowed instinct shattered under the weight of absolute loss.
So instead—
He accepted it.
Not survival.
Not victory.
What he was.
"I am the bone of my sword."
The words were not shouted.
They were acknowledged.
Reality hesitated.
For the first time since the spear chose his death—
causality wavered.
Steel manifested—not as a weapon—
But as memory.
As refusal.
Seven crystalline petals bloomed into existence between fate and flesh.
Rho Aias.
Wrath's inverted causality slammed into the shield.
Petals shattered instantly—
first, second, third—each exploding into fragments of light as inevitability tore through them.
Envy snarled as Zabaniya met resistance, his spectral fingers burning as they failed to close fully around the heart.
The fourth petal cracked.
The fifth bled light.
The sixth screamed.
The seventh—
Held.
The spear's destined strike skidded sideways in reality, tearing through the shield instead of the boy's heart.
Envy was thrown back violently, shadows rupturing as his Noble Phantasm collapsed mid-execution.
Wrath staggered.
One step.
Just one.
The shield dissolved.
The boy collapsed forward, coughing blood, chest burning, heart still beating—barely.
Alive.
Wrath stared at him in disbelief.
Envy clutched his arm, shadows writhing in fury.
For the first time—
Their perfect coordination had failed.
And somewhere, deep within the boy's fractured circuits, something ancient and radiant stirred.
Not yet.
But soon.
The world did not rush back all at once.
It seeped in through pain.
Not sharp—those nerves were already burned out—but deep and structural, the kind that settled into bone and refused to leave. The boy lay on one knee, one hand pressed hard against his chest as if he could physically hold his heart in place through sheer will. Each beat was uneven, lagging, as though time itself had grown uncertain about letting it continue.
Rho Aias had vanished.
Not gently.
It had shattered violently, its petals collapsing into motes of light that scorched his magic circuits on the way out. The shield had not simply blocked Wrath's causality—it had argued with it. And arguments with fate always demanded payment.
He coughed.
Blood spilled between his fingers, dark and thick, steaming faintly in the cold air.
His vision swam, edges blurring as if the world were being viewed through cracked glass. Every breath scraped. Every movement sent warning signals screaming through nerves that had already learned too much about suffering.
So this is the backlash, he thought distantly.
Wrath straightened.
The Lancer rolled his shoulder once, armor grinding softly as he re-centered himself. The disbelief on his scarred face had not vanished—but it had transformed. Where shock had been, something heavier now took its place.
Respect.
"…You lived," Wrath said.
Not as praise.
As fact.
The ground around him was fractured, stone split and melted where causality had been forced to detour. His spear reappeared in his grasp, runes dimmer now, embers rather than flame. Gáe Bolg had been invoked and denied—not nullified, not overpowered, but redirected.
Wrath had never seen that before.
Behind him, Envy staggered out of the broken shadow.
The Assassin's form wavered, edges blurring as if his body could not decide which version of itself to maintain. His arm—the one that had reached for the boy's heart—was blackened, veins standing out like cracks in glass. Shadow poured from the damage, writhing, unstable.
Zabaniya had failed.
That had never happened.
"You—" Envy hissed, voice fractured, layered, as though several versions of him were speaking at once. "You should have broken."
He laughed weakly.
The boy did not answer.
He could not afford words.
Standing was already a negotiation.
He forced himself upright inch by inch, legs trembling, muscles protesting violently. His body screamed that it was finished, that this was where it was supposed to stop. The Archer card pulsed erratically against his chest—fractured, cracked, barely holding together.
One more full installation would destroy it.
One more misuse might destroy him.
Wrath watched closely.
"You forced a conceptual shield into existence," he said slowly. "With circuits already collapsing."
The spear lowered slightly—not in mercy, but in curiosity.
"That was not desperation."
A pause.
"That was conviction."
The boy finally lifted his head.
His eyes were unfocused at first, then slowly sharpened, locking onto Wrath—not with defiance, not with hatred, but with grim clarity. Grey threaded his hair more visibly now, sweat and blood matting it against his forehead. His skin looked older somehow, stretched tighter over bone.
"I didn't survive," he said hoarsely. "I delayed."
Envy snarled.
"You cling to tricks," the Assassin spat. "Borrowed shields. Borrowed words. Borrowed strength."
He stepped forward, shadows writhing eagerly, forming curved blades along his arms—false edges shaped by resentment and hunger.
"You compare yourself to legends and think that makes you equal."
The boy's grip tightened against the stone.
"I don't compare myself to them," he replied quietly.
Envy froze.
"I walk behind them," the boy continued. "And clean up what they leave behind."
The shadows around Envy convulsed violently.
Wrath exhaled through his nose, something like approval flickering in his eyes.
"Enough talk."
He raised the spear again.
Not invoking his Noble Phantasm.
Not yet.
This was worse.
This was skill.
Wrath moved.
The spear thrust came low and fast, a killing blow aimed to end a wounded opponent efficiently. The boy barely reacted in time—tracing a blade that formed half a second too slow. Steel met steel.
The impact shattered the weapon and threw him sideways.
Envy was there instantly.
A blade of shadow raked across his back, tearing through cloth and flesh alike. Pain flared hot and immediate. He stumbled forward, barely keeping his footing as Wrath's spear followed, grazing his shoulder and ripping blood into the air.
They were no longer testing him.
They were dismantling him.
Wrath pressed from the front—relentless, precise, forcing him to move, to react, to burn what little strength he had left just to stay alive. Envy struck from blind angles, from reflections, from places that should not have existed—each attack designed not to kill, but to remind him of inadequacy.
Every blow whispered comparison.
You are slower.
You are weaker.
You are not enough.
The boy's breathing grew ragged.
His legs buckled once—twice.
Wrath knocked him to the ground with a sweeping strike of the spear's shaft. He rolled hard, barely avoiding a follow-up thrust that would have ended everything.
Envy loomed over him from above, shadow-hand poised.
"Now," Envy whispered, satisfaction seeping through his voice. "Let's see which version of you begs."
The boy's fingers dug into the dirt.
Something inside him shifted.
Not rage.
Not fear.
Calculation.
His gaze flicked—not to Wrath, not to Envy—but to the battlefield itself. The broken ground. The lingering distortion where Rho Aias had forced causality aside. The faint echo of Noble Phantasms that had already been invoked.
Traces.
Patterns.
Openings.
His magic circuits screamed in protest as he reached inward—not fully, not recklessly—but carefully, skimming the edge of something far heavier than he could properly wield.
Steel answered.
Not fully formed.
Not yet.
A faint outline shimmered in his grasp—longer than a sword, heavier, radiant even in incomplete form.
Wrath's eyes widened a fraction.
"…That shape," he muttered.
Envy recoiled instinctively, shadows rippling with sudden unease.
The boy forced himself to his feet, blood dripping freely, body shaking under the strain.
"I can't finish this," he admitted quietly.
Then his eyes hardened.
"But I can change it."
The incomplete weapon trembled in his hands, threatening to tear itself—and him—apart.
Wrath advanced.
Envy circled.
And the battlefield held its breath—
—because something impossible was beginning to take form, and if he failed to control it, there would be nothing left of him to bury.
The world narrowed to breath and blood.
Wrath stood before him like an executioner carved from war itself, spear held low, point hovering just short of the boy's throat. The ground around them was shattered into a spiderweb of cracks, every fracture a testament to the violence already spent—and the violence yet to come.
Behind Wrath, the shadows moved.
They did not surge.
They aligned.
Envy did not step forward. It did not need to. Its presence folded around Wrath's silhouette, slipping into the gaps of his rage like oil into iron. Where Wrath was force, Envy was direction—adjusting angles, sharpening intent, ensuring every ounce of violence landed where it would hurt most.
Two Sins.
One purpose.
End him.
"You're slowing," Wrath said, voice like grinding stone. "Your body knows it. Your card knows it."
The boy forced himself upright, boots scraping against loose rock. His legs trembled violently now. Blood ran freely down his side, soaking into cloth dark enough that he could no longer tell how much he had lost.
He tasted iron.
He tasted fear.
And beneath it—
Resolve.
Envy whispered, not into his ears, but into the space between thoughts.
Look at him.
Look at how easily he stands.
Look at how far you've fallen already.
The shadows stretched, pulling his reflection apart in the fractured stone beneath his feet—showing him versions of himself slower, weaker, dying in a hundred different ways.
Wrath moved.
The spear came down like judgment.
The boy barely twisted aside. Stone exploded where the blade struck, the shockwave tearing him off his feet and slamming him hard against the ground. His vision swam. His lungs refused to draw air for a terrifying second.
Wrath followed instantly.
No pause.
No mercy.
The spear thrust again, faster now, aimed not to kill—but to break. To pin him. To end movement altogether.
The boy raised his arm on instinct.
Mana screamed.
Steel answered.
A blade formed—then shattered on impact, fragments dissolving before they hit the ground. Another followed. And another. Each one broke faster than the last.
Wrath scoffed. "Pathetic."
Envy smiled.
Yes. Compare yourself.
The spear struck his shoulder.
Something tore.
He screamed as his arm went numb, useless at his side. He rolled desperately, barely avoiding the next thrust that would have ended it. He came up on one knee, shaking, vision blurred by pain and exhaustion.
This was it.
He knew it.
They knew it too.
Wrath raised his spear high, runes along its shaft igniting like buried coals finally given air.
The pressure spiked.
The sky darkened unnaturally.
Wrath's Noble Phantasm was awakening—raw, overwhelming, a killing intent refined through endless battle.
And Envy—
Envy leaned in.
The shadows thickened behind Wrath, forming shapes that mimicked the boy's posture, his stance, his failures. Every misstep. Every hesitation. Every moment he had been found wanting.
You are not enough.
The words were not spoken.
They were measured.
The boy's vision dimmed.
His body screamed for him to fall.
And then—
Something solid settled in his chest.
Not the Archer card.
Not borrowed memory.
Something older.
He exhaled slowly.
"…No," he whispered.
Wrath's spear descended.
The boy's hand moved—not upward, not outward—
—but inward.
He reached past pain. Past fear. Past the fractured future that Envy so desperately wanted him to chase.
He reached for a sword that did not yield.
Mana surged—not explosively, but cleanly. Purposefully.
The air rang like struck crystal.
Steel did not form.
It was remembered.
A blade unfolded into existence in his grasp—broad, radiant, impossibly steady. Gold-lined steel gleamed even beneath the darkened sky, its presence forcing the shadows back by its mere definition.
Wrath's eyes widened.
"…That sword—"
The boy stood.
Straight.
Unyielding.
Blood still ran freely. His body was still breaking.
But the sword in his hand was not.
He lifted it, point leveled forward, voice hoarse but unwavering.
"Trace—On."
The blade answered.
Memory locked into place.
Structure stabilized.
History acknowledged.
The name rose unbidden, heavy with inevitability.
"Durandal."
The world stilled.
Wrath's spear struck the blade—
—and stopped.
The impact detonated outward, shockwaves tearing through the battlefield, carving trenches into stone, ripping debris into the air. The boy was driven back a step—
—but no further.
Durandal held.
Wrath snarled, muscles straining as he forced power into the spear, runes blazing violently. "You think a sword makes you my equal?!"
The boy met his gaze, grey-threaded hair whipping in the storm of clashing power.
"No," he said quietly.
"I think it lets me stand."
Envy recoiled.
Not from the blade—
—but from what it represented.
A sword that did not bend.
A will that did not measure itself against others.
Wrath roared and pulled back, spear crackling as power gathered for another catastrophic strike. The shadows surged again, Envy adjusting, aligning, preparing something worse.
Durandal hummed in the boy's hand, its light steady, patient.
The calm before annihilation.
Two Sins drew upon their Noble Phantasms in unison—
—and the boy tightened his grip, knowing full well:
This sword alone would not save him.
But it would buy him one thing.
Time.
And sometimes—
that was enough.
The sky broke first.
Wrath drove his spear back and thrust it forward with everything he had—rage, discipline, centuries of perfected violence compressed into a single, merciless point. The runes along the shaft ignited fully now, burning white-hot as the Noble Phantasm awakened completely.
The air screamed.
This was not a technique meant to test.
It was a declaration.
At the same instant, the shadows behind him surged outward, no longer subtle, no longer patient. Envy abandoned restraint entirely. The darkness split and folded, forming countless overlapping silhouettes—afterimages of the boy, of Wrath, of people who might have stood here instead.
The battlefield fractured into comparisons.
Wrath's spear was absolute force.
Envy's Noble Phantasm was absolute negation of self.
Together, they were meant to erase him.
The boy raised Durandal.
The impact—
—was apocalyptic.
Steel met spear, light met shadow, and the collision detonated outward in a blinding eruption that tore the highlands apart. Stone disintegrated into dust. The ground collapsed inward, forming a widening crater beneath their feet. The shockwave flattened what little remained of the surrounding terrain, sending debris screaming into the sky.
The boy was driven backward.
Durandal screamed in protest as power far beyond his current limits slammed into it. His arms shook violently. His feet carved trenches through solid rock as he was pushed back, step by agonizing step.
Too much.
Wrath was too much.
Envy pressed down at the same time, its presence slithering into every crack of doubt.
Look at you.
Holding a borrowed sword.
Pretending you belong here.
The world darkened.
Durandal cracked.
Not shattered—
—but cracked.
The sound hit him harder than the blow.
His knees buckled.
Wrath roared and surged forward, spear tearing through the collapsing light of Durandal, driving straight toward his chest. The shadows swelled, ready to finish what force began.
This was it.
He felt it.
And then—
Something warm flared beneath the pain.
Not violent.
Not overwhelming.
Gentle.
A presence long forgotten.
"…So you finally broke it," a voice echoed softly—not aloud, but within.
His breath caught.
That voice—
The mage.
The one who had installed the card.
The one already dead.
A memory unfolded, not as illusion, not as manipulation—but as truth long sealed.
I told you I couldn't stay, the voice continued, calm, faintly amused. But I never said I'd leave you empty-handed.
Heat spread across his chest.
The Archer card stirred.
Cracks glowed—not red with strain, but gold, thin lines of light threading through the fractures like veins filling with blood for the first time.
You weren't ready then, the mage's voice said. So I left an imprint. A contingency. Call it… a craftsman's pride.
Mana surged.
Not explosively.
Precisely.
The broken Archer card repaired itself.
Not restored to perfection—
—but reforged.
The cracks sealed one by one, lines of light knitting the card together until its surface stabilized, darker than before, heavier with meaning. The class emblem burned briefly—then settled, calm and whole.
Wrath's spear was inches from his heart.
Envy shrieked.
"No—!"
The boy inhaled.
And spoke.
"I am the bone of my sword."
The words were not shouted.
They did not need to be.
Mana answered instantly, violently, as something ancient and immovable took shape before him. A massive shield unfolded into existence—layered, petal-like plates of prismatic force locking together with absolute certainty.
"Trace—On."
The spear struck.
Rho Aias bloomed.
The impact was cataclysmic.
Petals shattered one by one, each destruction releasing a thunderclap that shook the heavens, but the shield held. Wrath's Noble Phantasm screamed as its momentum was devoured layer after layer, force bleeding away into nothingness.
Wrath staggered back.
For the first time—
he lost ground.
Envy recoiled violently, its shadows tearing apart as the shield's absolute defense rejected comparison itself. Rho Aias did not care who was stronger.
It only answered one question:
Will this strike pass?
The answer was no.
The shield dissolved into light.
The boy stood behind it, bloodied, shaking—
—but standing.
The Archer card pulsed steadily now, whole, alive, anchored not just by future power—but by someone who had believed he would survive long enough to need it.
Wrath stared at him, disbelief burning through rage.
"…You're still standing."
The boy lifted his head, grey hair catching the broken light, eyes sharp and unwavering.
"Yeah," he replied quietly.
"I am."
Behind Wrath, the shadows writhed in fury.
Envy had lost control of the scale.
And for the first time since the hunt began—
both Sins understood the truth.
This was no longer a test.
It was a war.
And he was finally ready to fight it.
The world did not wait for the spear to fall.
It collapsed forward.
Wrath moved first—not in rage, but in execution. The spear came down with the inevitability of gravity, the air screaming as it was split apart by raw force refined through endless slaughter. This was not anger unleashed; this was violence perfected.
At the same instant—
The shadow behind him vanished.
No sound.
No distortion.
One moment Envy lingered at the edge of perception, and the next—
—death intent bloomed directly behind the boy's spine.
Too close.
Too precise.
The boy felt it not as danger, but as absence, as though a portion of the world had decided he was no longer necessary.
Wrath's spear descended from above.
Envy's blade rose from behind.
A perfect execution.
The kind that ended wars before they began.
The boy moved anyway.
Not fast enough.
The spear grazed his shoulder, crushing bone, tearing muscle apart in a spray of blood and shattered resolve. At the same time, Envy's strike passed through him—not cutting flesh, but severing presence.
For half a heartbeat—
—he did not exist.
The world forgot him.
Sound vanished.
Pain dulled.
Even gravity loosened its grip.
This was Envy's Noble Phantasm.
Zabaniya.
Not the act of killing—
—but the certainty that the target was already dead.
Wrath followed immediately.
His spear struck the ground where the boy should have been.
The impact erased the hillside.
Stone detonated outward in a massive ring, the land collapsing into a crater so vast it swallowed light. The shockwave tore across the battlefield, flattening trees, splitting earth, turning distance meaningless.
If the boy had been there—
—there would have been nothing left.
But he had fallen sideways, half-existing, half-forgotten, body tearing itself back into reality by sheer refusal.
He crashed into the dirt hard, vision snapping back violently as pain returned all at once.
He screamed.
Wrath turned slowly, eyes burning brighter.
"You survived," he said, not impressed—angered.
Envy's presence re-formed nearby, a thin, distorted silhouette stitched together from comparison and resentment.
"That should not have been possible," Envy whispered.
The boy tried to stand.
Failed.
His left arm hung useless. His breathing rattled. Blood soaked the ground beneath him, steaming faintly in the cold air.
The Archer card pulsed weakly.
Cracked.
Dying.
Wrath took a step forward.
Another.
Each footfall crushed stone into powder.
"Stand," he commanded again. "If you die crawling, you insult the struggle."
The boy laughed.
It came out broken, wet, ugly.
"Still ordering people around," he rasped. "You really are nothing without something to hit."
Wrath's grip tightened.
Envy shifted.
And then—
They released it.
Together.
Wrath planted his spear and spoke, voice echoing across the ruined land:
"GÁE BOLG."
The world twisted.
Causality inverted.
The spear no longer needed to travel—the result was already decided. Death anchored itself inside the boy's chest before the weapon even moved.
At the same time, Envy raised a shadowed hand.
"Zabaniya — Delusional Heartbeat."
The concept of assassination sharpened.
Not flesh.
Not bone.
Existence itself was targeted.
The boy felt his heart seize—not physically, but metaphysically, as if the idea of his survival had finally been deemed excessive.
This was it.
No more tricks.
No more distance.
No more borrowed moments.
The spear moved.
The shadow closed in.
And the boy spoke.
Not loudly.
Not defiantly.
But clearly.
"I am the bone of my sword."
The world halted.
Not stopped—
—resisted.
"Iron is my body," he continued, blood spilling freely now, voice steady despite everything,
"and fire is my blood."
Something answered.
Not a god.
Not a miracle.
A memory.
A will carved into him by someone who had already walked this road and refused to let him fall alone.
Magecraft ignited.
Not violently—
—but absolutely.
"Unknown to death,"
"nor known to life."
The Archer card flared—
—and repaired itself.
Cracks sealed shut as glowing lines spread across its surface, a final imprint activating at last. Not power granted—but power restored.
The mage's final gift.
A repair.
A refusal to let the future break before it arrived.
The boy slammed his hand into the ground.
"I have withstood pain to create many weapons—"
The spear of causality struck.
The assassination descended.
And the world split open as something impossible unfolded before them.
"Trace—"
Mana roared.
Steel screamed.
"ON."
A shield manifested.
Not flat.
Not simple.
Layered.
Petaled.
Each segment interlocking with absolute intent.
Rho Aias.
Wrath's spear collided first.
The impact shattered the sky.
Shockwaves tore outward in blinding rings as the spear struck the shield—and stopped.
Not deflected.
Not broken.
Stopped.
Envy's Noble Phantasm followed—
—and was rejected.
The concept of assassination slammed into the shield and unraveled, the world refusing to forget him.
Wrath staggered back a single step.
Envy recoiled violently.
"What—" Envy hissed. "That defense—"
The boy rose behind the shield, bloodied, shaking, but standing.
"I don't stand because I'm stronger," he said, voice raw but unwavering.
"I stand because you couldn't erase me."
The shield dissolved.
Steel rained down around him.
And for the first time—
Wrath and Envy understood.
This fight was no longer about killing him.
It was about whether two Sins together could crush a will that refused to yield.
The battlefield trembled.
The next clash would decide everything.
The battlefield no longer resembled land.
It was a wound.
Stone had been reduced to glassed fractures and pulverized dust, the air still screaming from forces that refused to settle. Rho Aias dissolved into drifting petals of light, each segment fading only after it was certain the world would not immediately try to kill him again.
The boy stood at the center of it.
Barely.
Blood soaked into the ground beneath his boots, every breath dragging pain through shattered ribs and torn circuits. His left arm hung limp, shoulder half-dislocated. Grey threaded his hair openly now, no longer subtle, no longer deniable.
But he was standing.
Wrath stared.
Not with disbelief.
With fury sharpened into something colder.
"That shield," Wrath said, voice low and vibrating with restrained violence. "That was not defense."
He leveled the spear again.
"That was defiance."
The boy lifted his head.
His eyes were steady.
"You finally understand."
Wrath roared.
Not in rage—
—but in acknowledgment.
He lunged.
This was not a technique.
Not a Noble Phantasm.
This was Wrath's true nature made manifest—every step cracking the earth, every swing carrying the weight of battles won through annihilation alone. The spear blurred, thrusting, sweeping, crushing, its reach absolute, its timing merciless.
The boy met it.
Steel screamed into existence around him—swords, shields, axes, fragments of weapons both familiar and unnamed. He moved on instinct alone now, tracing without thought, body guided by a future that refused to let him die here.
Each clash detonated.
Shockwaves collided midair. The sky fractured with thunder that did not come from clouds. The ground beneath them ceased to exist as a stable concept, collapsing and reforming with every exchange.
Wrath struck him full on.
The spear slammed into his side, hurling him across the battlefield like debris. He crashed hard, carving a trench through stone, rolling to a stop amid shattered earth.
Wrath followed instantly.
Too fast.
Too close.
The spear descended in a killing thrust meant to end it.
The boy forced himself upright and spoke through blood and pain.
"Trace—"
Steel answered.
"DURANDAL."
The blade manifested with violent finality.
Golden.
Radiant.
Unyielding.
Not elegant—but absolute.
Wrath's spear collided with Durandal—
—and shattered.
Not cracked.
Not deflected.
Shattered.
The runes along the shaft exploded outward as the spearhead disintegrated into fragments of glowing metal. Wrath was thrown back by the force alone, skidding across the battlefield, boots tearing through stone as he fought to regain balance.
Silence fell.
Wrath stared at what remained of his weapon.
Then he laughed.
A deep, thunderous sound filled with savage approval.
"So," he said, lifting his head, red eyes burning brighter than ever. "That is your answer."
He charged barehanded.
Fist met blade.
The impact sent a shockwave that flattened what little remained of the battlefield. Wrath's punch cracked Durandal's edge—but his arm split open in return, blood spraying across the ground like molten iron.
They collided again.
And again.
Each exchange slower now. Heavier. More deliberate.
Wrath struck like a living siege engine.
The boy answered with precision earned through suffering.
Finally—
Durandal pierced Wrath's chest.
Not cleanly.
Not gently.
The blade drove through armor, through muscle, through will, pinning Wrath to the shattered earth beneath him.
Wrath froze.
Then exhaled.
"…Good," he rumbled.
The red light in his eyes dimmed—not in fear, not in regret—but in satisfaction.
"This is how it should end."
His body began to crumble.
Not decay—
—collapse.
Wrath's form fractured into glowing embers of rage and iron resolve, dispersing into the air like sparks extinguished by time.
Where he fell—
A card remained.
The Lancer Class Card hovered above the scorched ground, pulsing faintly, heavy with destructive inevitability.
The boy staggered.
But before he could reach it—
The shadows moved.
Envy surged forward.
No proxy.
No disguise.
It manifested fully now—a distorted silhouette stitched together from stolen comparisons, its form constantly shifting between faces that almost matched the boy's and never quite did.
"You should not have won," Envy hissed. "You are not enough."
The boy turned slowly.
Durandal dissolved in his hand.
"Still talking," he said quietly. "That's how I know you're scared."
Envy struck.
Not directly.
The world bent.
Distance collapsed.
The boy felt a blade appear inside his chest—not physical, not visible. His heart stuttered as the concept of assassination reasserted itself.
Zabaniya.
Again.
But weaker.
Desperate.
The boy stepped forward anyway.
"You only win when people believe you," he said.
He raised his hand.
Steel folded into existence—not a blade, but a nail, simple and precise.
Envy recoiled.
"No—"
The boy drove it forward.
Not into flesh—
—but into shadow.
The nail pinned Envy's form to the ground, anchoring it to reality it despised. The shadows screamed as they were forced into alignment, comparison collapsing under its own contradiction.
Envy writhed.
Cracked.
Unraveled.
"You don't get to decide my worth," the boy said, voice steady despite the blood, the pain, the exhaustion threatening to drag him under.
"You never did."
Envy shattered.
Not erased.
But broken.
Its form dispersed violently, fragments tearing themselves away and dissolving into nothingness.
Silence returned.
Where Envy fell—
Another card hovered into view.
The Assassin Class Card.
Two cards.
Two Sins defeated.
The boy staggered forward and collapsed to one knee between them.
He reached out.
The Lancer card burned hot in his hand—heavy, violent, eager.
The Assassin card was cold—sharp, precise, patient.
He sealed them both.
The box closed with a final, definitive click.
Four cards now rested within it.
Rider.
Caster.
Assassin.
Lancer.
The boy stood slowly, painfully.
His body was wrecked.
His future uncertain.
But he was alive.
He looked toward the horizon, where broken land met a sky slowly healing from violence.
Envy had escaped before.
Wrath was gone.
And now—
The remaining Sins would not come alone.
He adjusted the strap of his pack and began to walk.
Because the path forward was no longer about survival.
It was about ending this.
And for the first time—
The world understood it could not stop him easily.