Silence pressed in on Modred.
Not soundless—empty.
The figure before him did not radiate power the way Arcana did. There was no pressure, no surge, no distortion. It simply existed, and the space around it behaved accordingly.
Modred steadied himself.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked.
The figure leaned back against the throne of compressed darkness, one leg draped lazily over the other.
"That," it replied, amused, "is none of your concern."
Its voice was smooth. Mocking.
"You should be grateful," it continued. "I'm willing to offer you help, punk ass."
Modred's jaw tightened.
"I don't need you. I'll beat Marcel myself."
For a moment, the figure stared at him.
Then it laughed.
"Adorable."
Modred shouted something—he didn't even realize what—but the figure casually raised two fingers and pressed them into its ears.
"Gods, you're loud," it muttered. "Learn when to shut up."
The darkness around them rippled, amused by the exchange.
Modred exhaled sharply. Then, quieter:
"…Can you really help me?"
The figure opened one eye.
A slow, arrogant smile spread across its face.
Three fingers rose.
"Three minutes," it said. "That's all I need."
Modred hesitated.
The figure leaned forward slightly.
"I'll show you how real pyromancy is done," it whispered.
"And I'll engrave it into you."
The darkness surged.
And darkness swallowed him whole.
Marcel stood over Modred's motionless body, unimpressed.
"Tch," he muttered. "Pathetic."
He pulled his greatsword free from the ground and rested it on his shoulder, already turning away.
Then—
Pressure crashed down.
The air distorted violently. Marcel froze mid-step, instincts screaming. Arcana surged so densely it felt like the world itself was bending.
Steel rang through the Division Two camp.
Bodies were already down. Smoke and scattered Arcana still lingered as Division One pressed forward, clean and efficient.
Then—
Everything stopped.
Pressure.
It descended without warning—vast, heavy, absolute. Arcana so dense it crushed breath from lungs and locked muscles in place. Flames flickered and died mid-air. Blades trembled, frozen inches from impact.
Augustus stiffened.
Leon's hand tightened around his weapon.
They both turned slowly, eyes drawn toward the same direction.
"…That presence," Leon muttered.
Augustus didn't answer immediately. His gaze sharpened, pupils constricting as he focused past the battlefield, past distance.
"So he finally caught up," Augustus said quietly.
Leon let out a short breath—half a chuckle, half disbelief.
"I guess that bastard really did manage it," he said. "Didn't think he'd survive long enough."
Augustus smiled faintly.
"You said the same thing last time," he replied.
Leon grimaced.
"…Yeah."
The pressure eased slightly—but the air remained heavy, warning rather than release.
Augustus straightened.
"We don't have time to stand around," he said.
Leon nodded.
They moved again.
The pressure hit without warning.
Arthur staggered half a step, breath locking in his chest. The air around them warped, mana turning thick—oppressive—like the world itself had been forced to kneel.
"What… was that?" Arthur muttered.
Taren didn't answer immediately.
His eyes were fixed toward the forest, jaw tight. The sensation wasn't unfamiliar—but it was wrong. Too vast. Too violent. Arcana layered over Arcana, not wild, not chaotic—claimed.
The ground beneath them vibrated once, subtle but unmistakable. Arthur felt it in his bones.
Taren's hand curled into a fist.
"Whatever that was," he said, voice low, controlled, "it's moving."
Arthur looked at him sharply. "You think it's—"
"I don't know," Taren cut in. "But it's heading deeper."
He turned already, urgency bleeding through his composure.
" "We need to move now," Taren said.
Arthur didn't argue.
They broke into a run.
Far from the battlefield, the observation room fell silent.
The chamber fell unnaturally still.
Mana projections continued to flicker across the walls, but no one was looking at them anymore. The pressure rolling through the room was heavy enough to make the air feel solid—like breathing through water.
One of the commanders swallowed.
"…I've never seen flames like that."
No one disagreed.
Igred's fist tightened slowly at his side, knuckles whitening as he stared at the projection. His expression didn't change—but something dark moved behind his eyes.
He turned his head slightly.
Magnus sat beside him, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed forward. Calm. Observant. But even he hadn't missed it.
Magnus glanced at him.
Igred turned fully now, eyes sharp.
"Well," Magnus said after a brief pause, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth,
"I'll be damned."
The words hung heavier than they should have.
"This kid," Magnus continued, voice low, almost amused,
"keeps on surprising me."
Marcel stopped.
Slowly, he turned.
Modred was standing.
His posture was loose now. Relaxed. Almost careless.
A dark, star-shaped sigil burned along his left cheek. His eyes were no longer emerald—his irises had turned deep crimson, the sclera swallowed by black.
He smiled.
Wide. Crooked. Unpleasant.
He laughed softly.
A sound that carried Modred's voice—but deeper. Older.
"…It's been a long time," he murmured to himself, surveying the clearing, "since I've seen the outside world."
Marcel's grip tightened. "Who are you?"
The thing wearing Modred turned his head.
Looked at him.
"I'm going to beat the living shit out of your privileged ass."
Dark red flames erupted.
Marcel reacted instantly.
Their blades met—
And Marcel was driven back.
Overwhelmed.
Modred moved like something unrestrained. His strikes were wild in intent but precise in execution, blades hammering down in relentless arcs. Fire followed every swing, detonating against Marcel's defenses, searing through dark Arcana like oil through cloth.
Marcel countered with brute force, his greatsword crashing down in massive sweeps, carving trenches into the ground.
Modred laughed.
A strike slipped past Marcel's guard.
Flames crawled up his arm.
Another blow—his side ignited.
Marcel roared, forcing distance, dark energy surging as he went all out.
Still not enough.
Modred toyed with him.
He stepped inside Marcel's reach, whispered something unheard, then burned him again—deliberate, cruel, controlled. Like a predator enjoying hesitation.
Marcel screamed as flames tore into him, burning through armor, flesh charring instantly. Modred laughed louder, circling him, striking just to wound. Just to hurt.
And then—
A figure in white and gold stepped between them, cloak flowing unnaturally still. One hand gripped Marcel's shoulder.
Gone.
They vanished.
Modred halted, blinking once.
Then grinned.
"Well well," he said. "Looks like you people haven't lost your touch."
The figure reappeared a short distance away.
"Shut up," he said coldly. "The Order of Apostles will be observing you."
Modred lunged.
The figure caught his blade between two fingers.
"…Have you grown this weak," he asked quietly, "after being chained so long?"
Then he disappeared—taking Marcel with him.
The flames receded.
Modred's smile faded.
He murmured—
"Well, kid… guess my job's done."
Footsteps approached.
"Modred?" Taren called.
"…Is that you?"