Reinhard van Astrea was, quite frankly, in a foul mood—an odd state for the ever‑smiling red‑haired knight whose grin usually hid a startling innocence beneath his pristine visage.
Perhaps it was his father's cold threat against Felt that darkened his thoughts, or maybe the bitter sting of another failure—hearing afterward as Satoru, the white‑haired sorcerer he had sworn to protect, slipped through his fingers. He had pledged himself to Satoru, believing the young man could reshape the kingdom, yet once again he found himself a useless knight, unable to reach the one he'd vowed to stand by.
He had sworn a vow to himself: he would always be by Gojo's side. He would be the sword that cut down any danger. And yet, that opportunity had never arisen, and its absence had only led to disaster.
With a final, explosive stride, a single, precise kick sent the heavy church doors blasting from their hinges.
The splintered wood flew like a cannonball, slamming squarely into the white-robed Archbishop. The intel from Lady Anastasia was clear, confirmed by both Subaru and Gojo: this was the Sin Archbishop of Greed, the most powerful of them all. And the man he had just struck was believed to be invincible.
"Reinhard?!"
Emilia's familiar voice, sharp with surprise, cut through the silence. His gaze found her standing at the far end of the desolate church.
"My apologies..."
He said, a faint, serene smile gracing his lips. Moonlight streamed through the shattered windows and the gaping hole where the doors once stood, casting his silhouette in stark relief.
"But this marriage will not be proceeding any further than this."
A step, poised to press the attack, was arrested by a sound that defied the very physics of the impact. From the heart of the ruin, a voice, incandescent with rage, clawed its way out.
The dust settled not on a broken form, but on a figure of immaculate perfection. He stood in the epicenter of the destruction Reinhard had wrought, yet he remained a portrait of untouchable grace. His white robes flowed, clean and bright, as if the very concept of dirt was an offense to them.
But his face—his face was a canvas of venomous indignation.
"Do you have any idea—"
He began, his voice a low, trembling snarl that quickly escalated into a frantic lecture.
"—Any concept at all of what you've just done? No, of course you don't. A primitive fool like you who only communicates with his fists wouldn't understand the sanctity of a joyful moment. This was my moment. This was a holy ceremony, a union of souls, a culmination of joy that was supposed to satisfy me. It was a peaceful, harmonious, and righteous event! And you, in your infinite ignorance, have violated my right to experience that satisfaction! You have trampled upon my contentment, infringed upon my happiness, and desecrated this church with your boorish presence, and for what?! For absolutely no reason that could possibly justify interfering with my life! My perfectly tranquil, utterly blameless life! The sheer arrogance, the unmitigated selfishness… it is truly, truly sickening!"
The Sword Saint stood as a statue against a hurricane of narcissism. His cerulean eyes, fixed on the source of the tirade, held nothing but a chilling, unwavering purpose.
Reinhard's jaw tightened, but he remained silent, his attention locked on Emilia. She was a fixed point in the chaos, seemingly paralyzed by an invisible weight that stole the very breath from her lungs.
"What's this? Silence?"
Regulus scoffed, his tone escalating with disbelief.
"Is that truly your response after I so graciously condescended to speak with you? My rights as a person are being trampled! I am speaking! Therefore, you should speak back! Is that simple etiquette so far beyond the grasp of a man like you?!"
He saw the subtle shift in Reinhard's posture, the tightening of fingers near the hilt of his blade. The intent was as clear as day, even to him.
With a flourish, Regulus raised a single, dismissive finger.
"Ah, ah, ah! I wouldn't do that if I were you! Take one more step—breathe in a way that I find even remotely displeasing—and every single person in this plaza dies. And it won't be my fault. It will be yours. Your brutish selfishness will be their end."
Reinhard froze mid-motion. His eyes, sharp as shattered ice, flickered to the assembly of women filling various parts of the church—a sea of figures clad in identical gowns, their expressions uncannily blank, their eyes vacant.
"——!"
"Ahh..." Regulus chuckled, a low, self-satisfied sound. "I see you've noticed my beautiful brides. These are the women fortunate enough to have been chosen by me, to be granted the honor of becoming my wives. I trust that satiates your vulgar curiosity."
Reinhard's formidable posture eased as he straightened to his full height, a disarmingly serene smile touching his lips.
"Of course." He said, his voice a calm counterpoint to the tension in the air.
"I'm grateful you would be so kind as to sate my confusion."
The compliment landed with unexpected weight. Regulus blinked, his arms drifting downward as the praise momentarily disarmed him. A self-satisfied smirk curled his lips.
"But of course! It is gratifying, I suppose, to see that even a man of your foolishness can recognize something as fundamentally pure and righteous as my kindness. It is a right, you see, for my benevolence to be acknowledged! It doesn't infringe on anyone else's rights, so for you to just state it, as if it were a simple fact of the world like the sun rising… well, it's the bare minimum, but I shall accept it nonetheless!"
"A small correction, if you'll permit me."
Reinhard continued, his smile never wavering, watching as the white-haired man's expression faltered.
"My aim was never on my weapon."
"But you clearly—!"
"The Dragon Sword Reid is, by all accounts, the most powerful blade in existence." Reinhard explained, his tone patient, almost instructional.
"It does, however, possess one fatal flaw… a will of its own. It can only be drawn against an opponent it deems worthy."
Reinhard's hand moved to the hilt, his fingers wrapping around the grip. There was a faint chime of metal against the scabbard, followed by a definitive, unyielding click as the blade refused to budge, as if the steel itself had turned to stone within its sheath.
"—And you, it seems, do not meet its standards."
The facade of civility shattered like glass. Regulus's face contorted into a rictus of pure, unadulterated fury. The moment his mouth opened to unleash a tirade, Reinhard exploded into motion.
"TO VIOLATE MY RIGHT TO BE JUDGED FAIRLY IS ONE THING, BUT TO IMPLY AN INANIMATE OBJECT HAS THE RIGHT TO—!"
Regulus's rant was cut short by a heavy flick of his wrist. A scythe of invisible force tore through the air. Forced to react, Reinhard launched himself upward, twisting in a gravity-defying leap. In that split second of airborne evasion, a sliver of hesitation, a chilling realization struck him.
His eyes widened in horror.
The attack wasn't for me!
"—No!!"
A heartbeat later, the gale struck its true targets. Several of the wives, standing as silent witnesses, were simply erased—bisected in an instant. Their torn bodies collapsed in a grotesque heap, lifeblood painting a cruel mosaic upon the sanctified church floor.
A guttural snarl ripped from Reinhard's throat. Kicking off the very air beneath him, he became a meteor of righteous fury. His leg arced with impossible speed, connecting with Regulus's stomach. The sound was not of flesh, but of a thunderclap, sending the Archbishop's body hurtling like a cannonball until he vanished into the far wall, buried beneath an avalanche of splintered wood and shattered stone.
The invisible shackles binding Emilia's body shattered. She crashed back to reality, stumbling forward as sensation flooded her limbs. Her gaze snapped to the space where the women had stood, and a choked sob tore from her throat. A hand flew to her mouth, too late to stifle the gasp of pure horror.
Before her lay a gruesome mosaic of death.
"No...!"
Behind her, Reinhard's jaw tightened. The sight was an indictment, a personal failure etched in blood and broken bodies. What chilled him to the core, however, was the memory of their expressions in that final, horrifying moment. They had smiled—a serene, welcoming smile as oblivion claimed them.
How profound must their suffering have been, for death itself to be a release?
"Lady Emilia... Can you see to the injured? My presence may interfere with your mana. So... I will advance to fight Greed."
Emilia was paralyzed, her bell-like eyes wide with shock, fixed on the carnage.
"My apologies... I have failed. In a way that someone bearing this much power... never should."
Reinhard murmured, the words heavy with a self-loathing that felt ancient and absolute. He did not turn to face her, unable to meet her gaze.
"...Reinhard..."
His gloved hand closed around the hilt of the Dragon Sword Reid. But he did could not draw it. Instead, with a soft pull on the metal, he unclasped the entire scabbard from his side. He held the sheathed sword like a bludgeon—an insult to the enemy, and a leash upon his own world-breaking power.
"It will not happen again."
He vowed, the words a chilling promise.
The warmth drained from his sky-blue eyes, replaced by the stillness of a frozen lake. This wasn't mere anger; it was a verdict. As he took a deliberate step forward, the ground beneath his boot seemed to harden in deference.
A trembling voice cut through his focus.
"Subaru..." Emilia's question was laced with a new, desperate fear.
"What about… Subaru?"
Reinhard paused, the name a fresh wound.
"His status is unknown. He and Satoru were taken."
"I see..."
The devastation in her voice was absolute.
Suddenly, a sound like tearing fabric on a cosmic scale ripped through the air. A shockwave of invisible force erupted from the rubble, atomizing stone and pulverizing debris into fine dust. Standing in the newly cleared space, brushing a nonexistent speck of dirt from his immaculate white suit, was Regulus Corneas. He was utterly unharmed. And he was incandescent with rage.
"See? See?! This is the result! This is the consequence of your absolute refusal to acknowledge me, to respect my rights as a perfectly content individual! I made a plea, a simple, heartfelt plea for you to cease your pointless struggle, yet you persisted. And now? Now, because of your actions, my lovely, innocent wives have had their lives stolen from them! You've inflicted an irreparable emotional wound upon me! Do you have any concept of the sheer violation I'm feeling right now?! The audacity is... it's simply breathtaking!"
Reinhard's jaw was set like granite. There was no argument to be made, only a verdict to be delivered.
He didn't just move; he vanished.
The air screamed as he broke the sound barrier, reappearing an instant before his foot connected with Regulus's core. The impact was a cataclysm. A shockwave tore through the church, and Regulus was blasted through the rear wall in an explosion of splintered wood and pulverized stone.
Regulus tumbled through the air, landing hard on the ravaged streets outside. As the dust began to settle, Reinhard stepped calmly through the newly-made exit, his blade gleaming softly in the twilight. The city around them was a ghost town, its waterways choked with debris, its proud buildings now skeletal remains.
A cold, resolute voice cut through the stillness.
"I, Reinhard van Astrea, Sword Saint of the Kingdom of Lugunica, shall carve the will of the righteous into your very being."
For a fleeting instant, the name registered on Regulus's face—a flicker of shock in his eyes. But it was immediately consumed by a chilling, warped grin of pure contempt.
"And I..." He declared, with a theatrical, mocking bow.
"Am Regulus Corneas. A Sin Archbishop of the Witch's Cult, representing Greed."
————————————————————————————
Silence was his only companion on the broken streets, but his mind screamed with memories of the world before the flood.
The memory of his defeat. Utter. One-sided.
The robed cultist who had bested him was no Sin Archbishop, yet it was no exaggeration to place them on that same monstrous pedestal. Even accounting for anomalies in their hierarchy, like Greed, this was something else entirely. In terms of pure skill, Julius Juukulius had never encountered its equal.
Not even his friend, Reinhard van Astrea, could boast such transcendent swordsmanship.
Based on Wilhelm's deductions, Julius was forced to believe the chilling truth: the cultists were ghosts. Legends torn from history and given flesh.
But which one?
A knight's intuition, a premonition of fate, told him his nemesis would be here. Pride demanded he face this phantom alone, his previous loss a fresh wound spurring him onward. That warrior was an aberration, fighting not with a single spark of mana, but with terrifying, unrestrained physical mastery.
The path ended before one of the four control towers. And standing sentinel before it—
A tall, powerful figure, cloaked from head to toe in shadow-black cloth. A sword, still sleeping in its scabbard, hung at their side. Their very presence was a physical weight, a silent broadcast of immense power that promised only pain.
Instinct took hold. Julius's hand became a blur, finding the familiar comfort of his sword's hilt.
"Might I have the courtesy of your name?"
He asked in jest, his voice a low challenge in the charged air. The words were a test, a final piece of ceremony before the chaos. He expected only silence.
The moment the cultist's shadow shifted, steel sang from its scabbard. In one fluid motion, Julius lunged, a silver blur closing the distance to begin the deadly dance.
————————————————————————————
—The Finest Knight. So the people called him.
He wore the title with pride, a mantle earned through years of sweat and blood. And yet, in the quiet chambers of his own heart, he had never dared claim it for himself. Decades of sacrifice had brought him here, only to place him before a new precipice—one he had to conquer, or live forever in its shadow.
Was their praise a just reward for his diligence? Could he truly call himself the finest?
Had he given everything to his training? Had he shattered the very limits of his flesh to grasp a greater height?
Yes. Julius Juukulius had done all that and more. He had transcended his boundaries, polishing his spirit and refining his technique until nothing but exhaustion remained, all in service to his ideals.
—Which is why, even now...
Even with the ghost of failure at his back.
Even as he stood before an unwinnable fight.
His chin remained high, his gaze unbroken.
He stood against what he firmly believes to be the very Pinnacle of the Sword.
————————————————————————————
From an impossible angle, the cultist's open palm met the descending arc of the sword. It wasn't a block, but a redirection—a jarring shove against the flat of the blade that sent it wide. Julius recoiled, using the momentum to flow into a decapitating slash aimed at the exposed throat.
—It was never going to be that easy.
The cultist leaned back, a fluid motion that seemed to defy gravity as the razored edge of the steel hissed inches from his throat, slicing a clean line through the black cloth. Before Julius could recover, his foe surged forward, a horizontal kick whistling through the air.
Julius barely angled his blade in time.
The impact was devastating, a concussive force that blew the knight backward several meters, his armored boots screeching across the cracked stone.
His back slammed into the cold stone of the balcony railing, the dizzying drop over one of the many flowing waterways just behind him. A palm strike, fast as a viper, lanced for his face. Julius ducked low, coiling his body into a spin as his own blade swept upward in a lethal arc.
But it was like striking at smoke. The cultist shifted with an unnatural fluidity, a phantom twisting away from the blow. The counter was instantaneous. A leg snapped out, the shin connecting with Julius's side with a sickening, wet crack.
"Hrk—!"
A choked gasp tore from Julius's throat as agony erupted in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs.
Sparks erupted with each clash, a spectacle of unrestrained power. To the finest knight, it was a profound absurdity—his tempered steel was met not by a blade, but by his opponent's bare, calloused hands. The cultist was a storm of motion, a maelstrom of sweeping kicks and blindingly fast hand-strikes that flowed around Julius's blade like water. A word, a challenge, tried to form on Julius's lips, but—
A bare hand shot forward like a bullet. It raked up his sword arm, the force staggering enough to almost shatter his grip. Blood welled instantly, and Julius's golden eyes narrowed in a sharp hiss of pain.
"I am sure... a conversation between warriors such as ourselves would be… enlightening. An exchange of ideals, perhaps? Alas, the moment is hardly fitting."
Julius recoiled, bending his knees to spring away. But the cultist was too fast; another unseen blow opened a gash along his ribs, a crimson arc painting the air.
He launched himself backward, boots striking the iron railing of a shattered balcony. Using it as a springboard, he vaulted into the open, wrenching his sword back as power flooded his wounded arm—a torrent like a river bursting its dam.
"—And thus, I ask for your aid once more! My spirits… no. My friends!"
The words were the key. The instant they left his lips, they answered.
Around the poised tip of his blade, the air began to shimmer. Flecks of impossible color coalesced—six swirling lights, each a distinct, gem-like hue. They danced and intermingled, weaving a celestial aurora around the steel, a living rainbow that banished the shadows from the broken streets below.
The knight's sword drank in the light, humming with uncontainable energy. It did not merely glow; it roared, groaned, and screamed with the weight of its borrowed power.
"Al Clauseria!"
"——"
The attack was a wave of annihilation, yet the robed combatant did not dodge. Perhaps it was the muscle memory of a life long past, an instinct that knew only defiance.
Instead, they stomped a foot down, the stone street fracturing under the impact. With an audible crack, a blade was torn from the waiting scabbard at their side—a flash of silver lightning in the rainbow's glow. It screamed upward in a silver arc to meet the infallible aurora. The collision was apocalyptic. For a heartbeat, light and steel warred. Then, the rainbow shattered. It was not dispersed, but cleaved in two, a shockwave tearing a raw fissure in the earth.
But the grand attack had only ever been a prelude. Through the blinding after-image and swirling dust, Julius was already there—a meter away, ducked low beneath the cultist's guard, his blade poised for the true strike.
"——!!"
CLANG—!!
The shriek of tortured metal echoed in the tense air. Two blades met, locked in a violent harmony. The clash lasted a fraction of a second, yet for Julius, it stretched into an eternity—a stalemate etched in sparks, where neither warrior gave an inch. He gritted his teeth, determination a fire against the ice of his pain.
"—In!"
A torrent of white light, a gift from one of his closest companions, surged through his veins. Power, raw and explosive, elevated him to new heights. The sudden amplification caught the living corpse off guard. As they swung, Julius flowed around the vicious slash, his own blade becoming a silver blur. It lanced forward, the glowing tip tearing through blackened robes and drawing a line of crimson across the cultists flesh before they recoiled, their retreat a desperate, defensive leap.
"Ia! Aro!"
He cried out to his companions once more, and they answered the call. A vortex of flame, supercharged by searing wind, erupted from the tip of his sword. The cultist scrambled back even further, but not before the inferno caught hold. The heat blasted away the tattered robes, singeing fabric and revealing more of the toned body beneath.
With every passing millisecond, the voracious flames consumed what little remained, devouring the robes that clung to his foe.
Julius's knees buckled, a primal instinct driving him forward. He pursued the cultist across the shattered earth, his sword a streak of desperate light, a beacon against the encroaching void.
"Iku!"
His voice, a raw invocation, resonated with the very earth. From the ground behind the fleeing figure, a wall of stone erupted, a geological retort that slammed the cultist back with brutal finality. The impact forced them to recoil, their offense shifting into a savage, forward lunge.
"Hrk—!"
A searing agony ripped along Julius's flank. The cultist's blade, a sliver of polished steel, found its mark. The world began to swim, a familiar, treacherous dance of exhaustion and exsanguination.
Their steel struck true again, but only for an instant. Julius's raw physicality, a testament to his relentless training, was dwarfed by the cultist's preternatural ferocity. The blow was deflected upward, his sword arm straining against an impossible force.
As Julius's guard momentarily fractured, the cultist advanced, their blade a focused point of pure intent, thrusting with chilling precision.
"Ness!"
The cry was a breath away from oblivion. The yin spirit, like a ripple of darkness in the air, manifested. It coalesced with a hastily conjured, multi-elemental shield, a desperate gambit. The spirit's touch sapped the attack's power, the barrier absorbing the remainder.
Yet, the cultist's blade, the pinnacle of the sword, did not stop. It shredded the barrier, not through brute force, but through an unmaking of its very essence. To Julius's disbelief, the strike annihilated the spell, the very concepts of magic, sound, and light dissolving in its wake. As the spectral defense fractured, the cultist's tattered robes, blackened and burnt from the waist up, disintegrated.
Revealed beneath was a face devoid of warmth, the effigy of a long-dead soul. Cerulean eyes, unnaturally bright, gazed from a mane of flowing crimson hair.
Then, a swing so silent, so swift, it was more felt than seen. The blade pierced Julius's gut with unnatural ease, exiting the other side with a chilling finality.
"Haaahhh..."
Julius gasped, drawing a ragged breath that burned his lungs. Pain was a dull roar now, a prelude to the inevitable flooding of his senses with his own blood.
That vibrant crimson hair, those startling cerulean eyes. A name, dredged from the depths of countless books, whispered through his mind. A name synonymous with unmatched power, a legend he had only ever encountered in the hushed reverence of historical texts.
...Reid Astrea. The First Sword Saint.
Time fractured. In the heart of the storm, amidst the shriek of steel, a single moment stretched into an eternity. A memory bloomed behind his eyes, not as a gentle thought, but as a brand of fire.
Perfection. He remembered the cold, sterile pursuit of it—every stance precise, every parry a calculated angle, every victory a hollow echo. It was the quest of a fool who believed a man could be forged into a flawless weapon, devoid of the very soul that gave him strength.
But that man was a lifetime ago, a ghost he had left in the ruins of his own pride. Now, there was no flawless form. There was only grit, desperation, and the jagged, beautiful edge of a soul refusing to break. He was not the finest of knights. He was flawed. He was scarred. And in that brokenness, he had found something infinitely greater. Beauty in imperfection.
He was one of the Spirit Knights, Julius Juukulius—forged not in the perfection of victory, but in the crucible of failure!
"From this ground, I will vanquish a legend..."
The voice, sharp as shattered glass, echoed in the oppressive dark. A soft glow began to emanate from the speaker, a prelude to annihilation.
"I will sunder the Sword Saint... Reid Astrea."
An aurora, more violent and magnificent than any natural phenomenon, tore itself into existence. It did not just illuminate the street; it unmade it. Torrents of liquid light—emerald, sapphire, and gold—crashed against crumbling facades, turning stone to spectral dust.
These lances of pure color converged, a storm of impossible energy, slamming into the unmoving silhouette of the man in crimson.
The final incantation was not a word, but a roar that ripped the sky asunder:
"—Al Clanveir!"
And in that instant, the world was swallowed, not merely by light, but by the beautiful, terrible face of devastation itself.