Dim blue crystals flickered across the deep cell-block, their light trembling as if even they feared the pressure gathering inside. Kouki steadied his breath, sword raised, stance rooted. Across from him, Masaboru rolled his shoulders like a predator waking from a nap he didn't enjoy.
No war cry.
No warning.
Just movement—clean, lethal, inevitable.
Kouki struck first. A perfect angle, flawless center line, sword edge carrying a burst of martial mana that split the air into threads of light.
Masaboru didn't dodge.
He didn't need to.
"False Reality—Shifting Mirage."
The world rippled.
To Kouki's eyes, the floor tilted. The walls elongated, folded, collapsed, reshaped themselves like a maze scribbled by a drunk god. His foot found the wrong ground. His blade swung through where Masaboru had been—but the angle twisted mid-arc, redirected by an illusion of geometry gone rabid.
Kouki recovered fast. Years of training. Battlefield instincts. Relentless discipline.
He slashed again—neck, knee, ribs—each cut a masterpiece.
None of them landed.
The room now seemed to bend away from his blade, pulling Masaboru out of reach one impossible centimeter at a time.
"Your swordsmanship is beautiful," Masaboru said, drifting sideways like a shadow with its own agenda. "Too bad beauty is useless here."
Kouki didn't answer. He couldn't waste breath. Not now.
He flooded his limbs with reinforcement spells, grounding himself, forcing his mind to reject the illusions. For a heartbeat—just one—the world steadied.
He lunged.
Masaboru grinned.
"False Reality—Phantom Shrapnel."
Everything shattered.
Air turned into a thousand invisible blades. Dust became razors. The stone floor buckled and splintered into phantom shards. None of it was real—yet Kouki saw it all, felt it press against his skin like a hundred thin edges begging for blood.
He swung wildly, instinct screaming, training overriding thought. He deflected, ducked, twisted, parried—
But he was fighting an army that didn't exist.
From behind the reinforced glass, Zentake laughed so hard his shoulders shook.
"Look at him! He's cutting wind! He's fighting dust!"
His voice echoed like cruel music across the stone.
Gaikotsu tapped along the wall with slow, lazy rhythm. "Ten seconds until Masaboru gets bored. Maybe less."
Shinjitsu watched in silence, his sealed arms unmoving, but his blindfolded head tilted ever so slightly—studying, evaluating.
Nogare's grin stretched sharp. "Knew it. This was always the outcome."
Inside the ring of illusion, Kouki's blade whirled in perfect arcs. Not one cut connected. Not one breath gained ground. His mind reeled beneath overlapping visions—danger signals firing at phantoms, instincts drowning in lies.
Yami Kurikage stumbled back. "This—this is impossible!"
Nishi Sayuri grabbed her arm. "Move! Out of the cell—now!"
Akihiro shoved Seiko toward the exit. "He's not targeting us yet, but if that pressure hits—RUN!"
The four adventurers bolted, boots slamming against stone as they fled the expanding wave of distortion.
Masaboru finally exhaled, as if satisfied with the suffering he'd measured.
"That sword won't save you," he murmured.
A flick of his wrist. A glint of silver.
The thrown dagger wasn't fast.
It didn't need to be.
Kouki's eyes widened—just a fraction—before the point kissed his shoulder.
The pain was real. The illusion broke in a single violent snap.
He collapsed to one knee, breath crushed out of him. His sword clattered across the warped floor that now looked normal—too normal. His muscles trembled from exhaustion his body hadn't earned, wounds his mind believed it suffered.
Mental defeat.
Physical collapse.
The Guildmaster of Ostoria… unable to rise.
Cracks split the reinforced walls as Masaboru's aura flared, mana-locks flickering like dying lanterns. The stone groaned, then ruptured.
Nogare stepped forward, expression bright with something like pride—or hunger.
"Big bro, you finished your warm-up."
He lifted his blade and sliced the last active chain.
The sound rang through the prison like a verdict.
Doors burst. Locks failed. The seals that had held the Suicidal Division trembled once… twice… and died.
Shinjitsu straightened.
Gaikotsu rose, vertebrae cracking like breaking twigs.
Zentake stepped out with a wide, amused smile.
Nogare sheathed his blade with casual finality.
Kaito Mugenrei drifted closer, already half part of them.
Masaboru stood in the center, the storm's heart.
The Suicidal Division was free.
And Reflynne would never forget what that meant.