Asta ran with long, purposeful strides, fast but not at the blinding speed he usually used in battle. Every few steps he paused just long enough to glance into side rooms, checking for prisoners who hadn't already been taken by the rebels.
Although…
"Why the hell are there so many damn stairs?" he muttered, skidding around another corner and staring down yet another descending spiraling flight. "How far down did these people dig?"
He groaned but kept moving, boots thudding on the stone steps. Despite the situation, a spark of excitement flickered inside him. This finally felt like something interesting. Something worth his time.
This world really was strange.
Magic, actual magic, was rare here. Rare, feared, and even hated in some places. To Asta, who had grown up surrounded by spells, grimoires, magical beasts, and a kingdom built on mana, the idea still felt upside-down.
Especially in a country like Demacia.
He still couldn't believe that his half-baked declaration when he first arrived had earned him a position of real authority here. But he wasn't naive. Demacia was trying to use him. Of course they were.
Not that it mattered.
Anything they threw at him, he would shatter. And if he couldn't, then he'd break his limits first, and then shatter whatever stood in his way.
He had considered leaving Demacia more than once. But after speaking with his brother, he realized that if Finral ever came looking, he'd start here. And Asta wasn't sure he wanted the Black Bulls walking into a country that despised magic and somehow managing to erase it from the map out of sheer chaos.
Not because he feared for the Bulls, they'd be fine.
He feared for Demacia.
So he stayed. And if he was going to stay, then he was going to change things. Show these people what real magic looked like. Build something new.
Maybe even train the first Wizard King of this world.
The thought made him grin despite himself as he bounded down the next set of stairs.
Asta closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the faint signatures of life below. "I can still sense people down there… maybe there's a dungeon," he murmured before simply stepping off the edge and dropping.
He hit the ground twelve seconds later, boots touching down with a soft thud that kicked up a ring of dust. When the haze settled, the first thing he saw were bodies, uniformed guards sprawled lifeless around the stone floor.
He had definitely found a prison.
Ahead of him, figures scrambled in panic. Most wore ragged clothes, the same kind of civilians he'd seen earlier trying to flee the chaos above. Prisoners. But not all of them.
Asta tilted his head to the side as a boot cut through the air where his face had been. He casually caught the attacker by the throat with one hand.
"That's not gonna work, you know," he said flatly.
"Grk..!" The man choked out, teeth grinding as Asta looked him over. Dark-skinned, tall, heavily built. A blue cloak draped his shoulders, golden pauldrons glinting even in the dim dungeon light.
He looked exactly like...
"A MageSeeker?" Asta muttered. The confusion creased his brow. Why would a MageSeeker be breaking into a MageSeeker stronghold?
"I'm not part of those psychopaths and their foolish ways," the man growled. "I left the Order after I saw the evils they were committing. Don't you dare call me a MageSeeker again."
Asta blinked, a little surprised at the man's conviction. "…Okay? Still arresting you, though," he said, shrugging. "You've murdered a lot of people and caused a whole lot of chaos up top."
The man dangled in Asta's grip, feet kicking a few inches above the floor. His eyes narrowed as he took in Asta's cloak.
"That cloak… you... you're that foreign mage, aren't you?" he rasped. "Why are you stopping me? Stopping us? Look behind me, these people are innocents. Their only crime is the magic in their veins."
Asta flicked his gaze past the man.
More prisoners stood farther down the corridor, far more than the group he had escorted earlier with Darryl and Emilia. Some clung to the iron bars of their cells; others huddled together in wary clusters. All of them watched him like cornered animals waiting to see if he would strike.
Asta turned his attention back to the struggling man. "What's your name?"
"Gideon," the man managed between clenched teeth. "I used to be a MageSeeker… but only under duress. They held my husband hostage to keep me in line."
Asta's expression darkened, though his grip didn't loosen. "What do you plan to do with these people?"
Gideon straightened as much as he could. "We'll take those who want to fight with us. The rest will join another group of mages outside Demacia, people who can hide them, protect them."
Asta raised a brow. "You're awfully cooperative."
"Of course I am." Gideon let out a strained, humorless grin. "You did something no one thought possible. Demacia acknowledged your magic. They're scrambling to save face, pretending they're tolerant, but they're terrified of you. And the MageSeekers? They've gone too far. They need to pay for what they've done."
"You think I'm going to help you with that?" Asta asked, voice steady.
Gideon shook his head. "I don't know what you'll do. What I do know is the MageSeekers. They'll never accept you. They're furious because of you, and they'll come after you the moment they can. They'll use anything, anyone, to get to you."
Asta's mind flickered briefly to Darryl and Emilia somewhere above… but he pushed the thought aside.
"Where's Sylas?" he asked, voice dropping into something colder. "Tell me where he is."
---
When Asta reached the final chamber, his jaw was clenched so tightly it was a miracle his teeth hadn't cracked.
The descent had been a nightmare, twisted corpses lining the halls, bodies warped into grotesque shapes that no longer resembled anything human. And yet… their fading Ki told him the truth.
They had been human. Once.
"He's in there," Asta muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice echoed faintly as he stepped into the chamber.
The room was dim, lit only by flickering lanterns mounted high on the stone walls. Chains were strewn across the floor like discarded snakes. In the center lay a massive mound, one of those malformed beings, but larger, heavier, more violently transformed than the rest.
Kneeling beside it was a man.
He was bare-chested, his muscular arms wrapped in heavy chains that wound around silver-and-gold gauntlets. A large monocle hung from a chain at his neck, glinting dully in the low light. His long, unkempt hair obscured his face as he bowed over the mound.
Asta didn't speak. He didn't move. He simply waited, letting the man grieve.
At last, Sylas spoke, voice low and tight.
"You're not a MageSeeker." He didn't lift his head. "Have you come to stop me regardless?"
Asta stepped forward. "My name is Asta. Captain of the Black Bulls Magic Knight squad."
Sylas's shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he turned his head, revealing eyes rimmed with exhaustion and fury. "Asta… The foreigner. You're him."
Asta gave a single nod.
"I saw your work," Sylas murmured, looking past him as though recalling the memory. "The sky had never looked so beautiful. You made Demacia tremble. You showed them who truly stands at the top of the food chain."
Asta shook his head, expression hardening.
"You missed the point, Sylas. I don't blame you though, considering you don't know what happened before all that."
"Missed the point…" Sylas whispered as he slowly rose to his feet. The chains wrapped around his arms rattled, heavy links dragging across the stone.
"Missed the point!?" he roared, and the entire chamber seemed to vibrate with the sound.
His chains slammed against the floor with every furious motion.
"What is the point then!?" Sylas' eyes flared with a violent violet sheen as he screamed. "They look down on us! They call us diseases, creatures to be purged! I rotted in a cell for fifteen years for something I had no control over. Fifteen years, alone, with nothing but my thoughts… and my hatred."
Asta shifted lightly to the side, refusing to break eye contact.
"They believe themselves superior, yet the truth couldn't be further!" Sylas continued, voice cracking under the mixture of rage and grief. "Mages are the superior ones. We carry the truth of the world in our veins. And they fear us for it! I'll tear down the MageSeekers, and after that, the last of the royal line. I'll rebuild Demacia the right way."
Madness and pain twisted together in his eyes.
"You're in mourning, man," Asta said calmly. "You need to breathe. I get where you're coming from. He must've been important to you."
Sylas's chest heaved as he sucked in a shaky breath. "Killan never did anything wrong. He wasn't even a mage!" His voice broke. "And yet they turned him into this monster. All because he cared. Because he had a conscience. They twisted him into a mindless beast… and I..."
He trembled. "I had to kill him. They made me kill Killan."
Asta lowered his gaze for a moment. "They'll pay for this," he said quietly. "I'll see to that. But you still need to turn yourself in. Whatever the MageSeekers did, you're still wanted for multiple crimes, including the murder of the late king."
"Jarvan III?" Sylas frowned, almost offended. "As much as I'd like to take credit, I wasn't the one who struck him down. He was already dead when I arrived."
Asta nodded slightly. "I see."
Sylas stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.
"You expect me to turn myself in?" he asked, incredulous. "Not on your life."
Sylas took a slow step forward, the heavy chains dragging behind him like hungry metal serpents. His expression twisted... "You, Asta… you could end them with a single swing. You don't understand what you mean to the mages out there. You're proof." His voice softened into something dangerously earnest. "Proof that we don't need to hide. Proof that magic isn't a curse. Prof that Demacia was wrong."
Asta's grip on his sword tightened, but he still didn't strike.
Sylas saw that, and pressed further.
"Fight with me," he said, the words rolling out with a leader's conviction. "We liberate the mages. We destroy the MageSeekers. We tear down the rotten throne that's been choking this country for generations. Together, we can build something better than these hypocrites ever dreamed."
Asta exhaled slowly. "Sylas..."
"You already know they'll turn on you," Sylas cut in sharply. "You already know the nobles fear you. You already know the MageSeekers want you dead. They will betray you the second you stop being useful." His eyes narrowed. "Why protect a kingdom that would gladly burn you alive if they thought they could?"
Asta didn't speak.
Sylas took another step, almost close enough to touch him. "You're not just powerful. You're inspiring." His voice dropped into something almost reverent. "You could stand at the head of a new age. Magic reborn. The oppressed rising. A world shaped by those with the will to change it."
He lifted his chin. "Stand with me, Asta. Fight with me. Free them with me."
For a moment, the chamber fell silent.
Only the sound of distant dripping water and the slow scrape of Sylas's chains.
Asta finally opened his eyes fully, and his presence surged through the room, sharp, bright, cutting through the heavy tension like a blade of wind.
"You talk like you're freeing people," Asta said quietly, "but what you are is someone who wants revenge so badly he's willing to burn the world for it."
Sylas's expression hardened instantly. "Revenge? This is justice long coming."
"You don't know the difference anymore," Asta replied.
Sylas clenched his fists, chains rattling like a warning. "Don't pretend you understand my pain."
"No," Asta admitted. "I understand it alright. I also understand something else."
Sylas blinked. "And what's that?"
Asta stepped forward, just one step, but it shifted the entire air of the room.
"I understand what happens when power blinds you. When anger becomes the only thing you see." His voice lowered. "I've seen people like that. I've fought people like that. I've saved people like that."
Sylas scoffed. "Save me, then. Go on."
Asta shook his head. "You don't want saving."
Something in Sylas finally snapped, not loudly, not dramatically, but quietly… like a glass cracking under too much pressure.
"Then I guess we're done talking," Sylas whispered.
The chains around his arms rose like awakened beasts... Only to drop back down like the lifeless chains that they were. Whatever magic that was running through dissipating into nothingness.
"What?" Sylas looked down at his chains, eyes widening. 'The magic… it's gone. All of the magic I absorbed into the petricite shackles.'
He snapped his gaze back to Asta, a strange excitement flickering in his eyes. "So this is AntiMagic… the true bane of all things magical."
In the next instant he lunged, bursting forward with all the strength his body could muster.
Asta shifted with a single, lazy step, letting Sylas slide past him.
Clunk.
Asta blinked and glanced at his wrist, now wrapped in a length of chain.
Sylas straightened, lips curling into a confident grin as he pulled the chain taut between them.
"Unfortunately for you, overconfidence is something both mages and MageSeekers share."
He reached into the link, tugging at the arcane essence tied to the chain. 'With AntiMagic added to my arsenal, even the mages who side with those MageSeeker hypocrites will fall easily…'
But then, nothing. A void. A dead silence where there should have been power.
Sylas's grin faltered. 'What? I can't feel anything… I should be able to draw his AntiMagic into myself. Why isn't it working?'
Asta tilted his head like a confused puppy.
"Hey, why are you just standing there? What're you trying to do?"
Sylas quickly unlatched the chain from Asta's wrist, stepping back as a wary look crossed his face. "You… You don't have any magic."
Asta raised a brow. "Yeah. That's been established already."
"But..!" Sylas practically shouted. "You use AntiMagic! I saw your sword swallow the sky!"
Asta shrugged. "AntiMagic isn't magic. Duh. And people call me the idiot."
Chains snapped forward like living steel, lashing out from two angles at once, overhead, underfoot, straight at Asta's throat, faster than any normal human could follow.
Asta didn't move until the last moment. The first chain reached him bounced off the back of his hand as he smacked it into the trajectory of the second.
Sylas froze mid-strike. Both chains wrapped around each other as they clanged back before him.
Asta lifted a finger. "That's not gonna work either."
"SHUT UP!" Sylas roared.
He swung with everything he had, chains whipping in unpredictable spirals that tore into the ground, gouging into the stone.
Even without magic, Sylas was strong.
Strong enough that any average person would have died three times by now. Even the best soldiers would have been sent flying.
But Asta simply stepped around each strike, boots tapping lightly against the floor.
"You're unfocused," Asta said, weaving past a chain that would've bisected an ox. "Your movements are all over the place."
"Silence!" Sylas snarled, slamming his foot into the ground hard enough to crack stone. "I've waited fifteen years for this moment. I won't be lectured by a child!"
He surged forward and caught Asta's cloak with one hand, dragging him in and swinging a fist wrapped in thick steel.
Asta let the punch hit him.
The impact shook the entire chamber, dust raining from the ceiling.
Sylas's eyes widened. His fist trembled, bones screaming beneath the force of the rebound.
Asta looked at him. "That all?"
Sylas stared at him in disbelief. "What… what are you made of?"
Asta didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed Sylas's arm, gently, almost sympathetically, and tightened his grip.
Sylas gasped as Asta's strength locked him in place, chains rattling helplessly.
"You're strong," Asta admitted. "Really strong. And you've been through hell. I get that."
Sylas's jaw clenched, fury boiling under the surface.
"But that..." Asta pulled him in close, their eyes inches apart. "...doesn't give you the right to..."
Fwoosh!
Asta leaped back as Sylas was suddenly swallowed by a ring of violet fire.
"Now what…?" he muttered, eyes narrowing.
"This… this magic…" Sylas whispered, staring at the flames curling around him. "The Veiled Lady…" His voice trembled with recognition, right before instinct slammed into him like a hammer.
Because when he looked back up, Asta was already holding a black katana raised high above his head.
"Anti-Magic… Demon-Slasher: Black Slash!"
Asta brought the blade down in a single fluid motion, releasing a sweeping arc of black energy that tore across the chamber. The ground split. The walls screamed. A deep gouge carved through the stone, slicing the chamber nearly in two.
But Sylas was gone, ripped away by the violet fire an instant before impact.
Not a trace of him remained.
Asta lowered his sword, frowning. "That's strange… right, Liebe? Someone used magic to pull him out, even with AntiMagic filling the room."
He slid the katana back into his grimoire and let out a quiet breath. "I guess Sylas escaped. As far as first missions go… that's not great."
His gaze drifted to the twisted corpse on the floor, the remains of Killan. A slow, heavy sigh escaped him.
"They don't deserve this. No one does. We'll give him a proper burial."
Asta turned to leave, boots crunching softly on shattered stone. As he retraced his steps up the winding corridors, he noticed something else missing.
The prisoners were gone. Gideon too.
"Looks like they slipped out as well," he murmured.
It took a while to climb back to the upper levels, where he'd left Darryl and Emilia with the crowd of freed captives.
But when he reached the entrance… he stopped.
The hallway was nearly empty.
Of the dozens of prisoners he'd left behind, only one small girl remained, standing beside Darryl and Emilia.
Emilia looked worn down, her hair disheveled, clothing torn. She kept one steadying hand on Darryl's shoulder.
Darryl himself was worse. Blood streaked across his cheeks, and he rubbed at his eyes with trembling fingers. He gasped softly when he noticed Asta entering.
He turned toward him, voice wavering.
"Captain…?"
And Asta finally saw his eyes.
And he went completely still.