Lencar moved through the remnants of the mist. He kept his Phantom Walker active, a blur in the corner of the eye that the exhausted Magic Knights failed to notice.
He positioned himself behind a crumbled wall, ten meters from where Heath and his men lay.
He raised his hand. He didn't use a flashy spell. He used the [Spatial Magic] he had refined from hunting the bandits.
"Coordinates locked," he whispered.
Small, silent distortions opened beneath the grimoires of the unconscious cultists.
Zip.
The three grimoires—Heath's elegant, ice-blue book, and the two muddy-brown books of his subordinates—vanished from their sides and reappeared floating in front of Lencar in the alleyway.
He caught them. They were heavy with the residual mana of their owners.
"The Harvest is here," Lencar declared.
He placed his own plain, blank grimoire on top of the stack.
He started with the subordinate, Abari.
[Replica Magic: Absolute Replication]
Lencar closed his eyes. The sensation was immediate. The world fell away, replaced by the dark, cold void of the soul realm.
He saw Abari's soul. It was a muddy, dense thing, shaped by blind loyalty and a affinity for the earth.
Lencar felt his own soul—a construct of multiple crystals, now growing brighter—reach out. It was no longer a struggle. His soul was heavier now, forged by the Red Clay bandits and the rogue mages. It grabbed the essence of Abari's magic like a titan grabbing a stone.
Siphon.
He felt the Soul Gem—a small, brown sphere of energy—tear loose from Abari and merge into him.
Snap.
Lencar's eyes fluttered. He felt the barrier inside him—the ceiling of Stage 5 mana capacity—shatter completely. It was like a dam breaking. A rush of power flooded his veins, expanding his mana skin, thickening it, making it dense and responsive.
"Stage 4," Lencar gasped, steadying himself against the wall. "I have reached the realm of the elites."
He didn't stop. He moved to the second subordinate.
Absolute Replication.
Another soul harvested. This one was weaker, a general reinforcement type, but it added volume. Lencar felt his new Stage 4 reservoir filling up, pushing toward the median.
Finally, he looked at Heath Grice's grimoire. It was cold to the touch.
"The prize," Lencar whispered.
He placed his hand on it.
[Replica Magic]: [Absolute Replication]
The backlash was instant. Heath's soul wasn't muddy. It was a glacier. It was sharp, organized, and fanatical. Lencar felt a wave of icy resistance. He saw flashes of Heath's memory—a man with light pouring from him (Patolli), the promise of a rebirth, the hatred for the "beasts" of the human realm.
"Your loyalty is strong," Lencar gritted his teeth, his mind straining against the mental frost. "But my hunger is stronger."
Lencar's soul flared. The stolen strength of twenty men crashed against Heath's resistance.
CRACK.
The ice broke.
Lencar gasped as the Ice Magic flooded him. It was excruciatingly cold, burning his circuits, rewriting his understanding of thermodynamics. He felt his mana capacity surge again, pushing him firmly into Mid-Stage 4.
His Mana Skin hardened. His perception sharpened to a razor's edge. He understood the concept of Time—not to control it, but the obsession Heath had with it.
Lencar opened his eyes. He was sweating, despite the cold.
"Done," he wheezed.
But the violence of the Absolute Replication had a side effect. Ripping at the soul of a strong mage sent a shockwave through their body.
In the square, Heath Grice's eyes snapped open.
"Gah!" Heath gasped, clutching his chest. The emptiness where his magic used to be was a void of horror. He felt... violated.
"He's awake!" Magna shouted, raising his bat. "Stay down, you ice-freak!"
Heath looked around wildly. He reached for his grimoire pouch. It was empty.
"My... my magic..." Heath stammered. He looked at his hands. He couldn't summon the ice. He felt hollowed out.
He looked at his subordinates. They were also stirring, looking equally terrified and empty.
"We failed," Heath whispered. The realization hit him harder than Asta's sword. "The schedule is broken. The mission is a failure. And... my grimoire is gone."
He looked at Asta. Then, his eyes darted to the shadows where Lencar was hiding. He couldn't see Lencar, but he felt the absence of his own soul lingering there.
"You..." Heath hissed at the empty air. "Something... ate us."
"Hey! Start talking!" Asta yelled, pointing his sword. "Who are you guys? Why did you attack the village?"
Heath looked at Asta with a mix of pity and madness.
"The Master..." Heath choked out. "I cannot let the Master be compromised. Even without magic... I have one duty left."
He reached into his pocket. He didn't pull out a weapon. He pulled out a small, jagged magical tool—a relic imbued with a pre-cast spell.
"For the Eye of the Midnight Sun," Heath declared.
He crushed the relic.
[Forbidden Magic]: [Ice Burial]
Even without his own mana, the relic activated. A massive glyph appeared beneath Heath and his two men.
"Wait! What is he doing?!" Noelle screamed.
Ice—black and jagged—erupted from the ground, encasing Heath and his subordinates instantly. It wasn't an attack; it was a coffin. The ice expanded rapidly, crushing their bodies, sealing them in a frozen tomb that would never melt.
"STOP!" Asta ran forward, swinging his sword to break the ice.
Clang!
He chipped it, but the men inside were already gone. Their life forces extinguished instantly.
"He... he killed himself," Magna whispered, lowering his bat. "Just to keep from talking? Who the hell are these guys?"
The Black Bulls stood there, the victory suddenly tasting like ash. The fanaticism of the enemy was terrifying.
Then, a small movement caught Lencar's eye.
From the folds of Asta's robe, a strange bird with horns and a tail like an arrow flew out.
Nero. (Secre Swallowtail).
The bird landed on Asta's head and started pecking him violently.
"Ow! Ow! Nero! What is it?!" Asta yelled, flailing.
Nero flew down to the frozen corpse of Heath Grice. She pecked at something shiny caught in the ice near Heath's shattered pocket watch.
It was a small, unassuming stone.
"A stone?" Asta blinked.
Nero picked it up in her beak and flew back, dropping it onto Asta's head. Bonk.
"Ow! A rock? Thanks, I guess?" Asta rubbed his head, holding the stone up. "It feels... kinda tingly?"
Hidden in the alley, Lencar stared at the stone.
The Magic Stone.
One of the keys to the Shadow Palace. One of the keys to reviving the Elves.
"I could take it," Lencar thought. "I could warp it to my hand right now. I could derail the entire plot."
He hesitated.
If he took the stone, Patolli wouldn't be able to complete the reincarnation. The devastation of the Royal Capital might be avoided.
But, Lencar reasoned, if I take it, the Eye of the Midnight Sun will hunt me. Not just Heath Grice, but Vetto. Fana. Rhya. And eventually, the Devil Zagred will turn his gaze on me.
"I am Stage 4," Lencar reminded himself. "I am not ready for Zagred."
He let his hand drop.
"Keep the rock, Asta," Lencar whispered. "Be the lightning rod."
He felt the fatigue setting in. The harvest was complete. He had Ice Magic. He had Mist Magic. He had reached Stage 4.
He looked at the Black Bulls one last time. They were battered, confused, but alive. They had done their job.
"And I have done mine," Lencar said.
He turned away from the village square.
[Spatial Magic]: [Long-Range Coordinate Shift]
The gray rift opened. Lencar stepped through, leaving the freezing mist of Sosshi behind, carrying the cold weight of three new souls in his chest.