The axe feels wrong in Levi's hands.
Not because of its weight—Kargan's «Iron Skin» has already bled into his muscles, thickening them with borrowed strength—but because the weapon remembers.
It remembers a hand larger than his.
A grip that once lifted a child into the air.
Levi lets the greataxe drag behind him.
SFX: SKRRRR—
Its blade carves a shallow groove through bone dust and shattered armor as he walks.
The battlefield is quiet now.
Too quiet.
The Seraph host has withdrawn, leaving only the whisper of wind and the slow, inevitable dissolution of the dead. Of nineteen shadows, only three remain.
The other two are already limping toward the distant resurrection spires, desperate to forget today.
Levi stays.
He kneels beside what remains of Kargan.
The dragon-skull helm is split open like a cracked egg. One crimson eye still stares upward at the bleeding violet lightning above, already dull, already empty.
Shadows do not keep corpses long.
The Abyss recycles everything.
Levi reaches out and gently closes that eye with two fingers.
"…Sorry," he whispers.
Old habit.
Useless words.
The Protocol does not punish apologies.
It only punishes disobedience.
A notification flickers into existence at the edge of his vision—small, persistent.
⊳ Unclaimed Loot Detected:
Berserker's Greataxe [A-Rank]
⊳ Bind as Primary Weapon?
Y / N
Levi selects Yes.
SFX: THRUM—
The axe shrinks slightly, resizing itself to his frame. Runes slither across the blade like living things, carving Kargan's true name into the metal in a language older than grief.
Levi stands.
On the horizon, the resurrection spires loom—towering black obelisks impaling the writhing cloud-ceiling above. Every fallen shadow will awaken there within hours.
Memories erased.
Pain forgotten.
Ready to fight again.
Ready to die again.
Levi has never gone to them willingly.
Because he remembers.
Because he is the only one who does.
He turns away from the spires and walks in the opposite direction.
Toward the Ashen Legion's forward camp.
Toward whatever waits after the 114th master.
The camp is a wound carved into the land.
Trenches reinforced with spiked helms. Cookfires burning not with wood, but with violet mana, crackling and hissing. Banners flap overhead, soaked in blood and sulfur-stink.
Shadows move everywhere.
Soldier-class, mostly—mindless drones with hollow eye-sockets. Warriors and Mages linger near supply crates, trading stolen skills and insults with equal enthusiasm.
No one stops Levi.
Servants are invisible until they are needed.
He passes rows of tethered war-beasts—things with too many teeth and not enough mercy—and reaches the assignment tent.
Inside waits a single shadow.
Thin. Hooded. Hunched over a glowing crystal slate.
Administrator-class. Rank B.
The one who deals out new masters like fate cards.
It doesn't look up.
"Name and class."
"Levi. Servant."
A pause.
The hood tilts slightly.
"You're early. Kargan's dissolution isn't complete."
"He died."
"Obviously."
The Administrator taps the slate. Purple glyphs cascade.
"Unusual. Most Servants crawl to resurrection first. You came straight here."
Levi says nothing.
The hood tilts further, as if trying to peer inside his skull.
"Protocol intact?"
"Yes."
"No recorded violations?"
"None."
Another tap.
"Then you are reassigned. Effective immediately."
The slate projects a hologram between them.
A woman in fractured silver armor.
Wings of blackened feathers folded tight against her back.
A cracked saint's mask obscures her face.
Long white hair streaked with ash.
Name: Aria
Class: Fallen Paladin
Rank: S
Legion: Ashen Remnant Division
Temperament: Unknown
The Administrator's voice lowers—just a fraction.
"She requested a Servant specifically. No reason given. Most assume she wants a disposable scout."
Levi stares at the hologram.
The mask bears a hairline fracture through the left eye.
Like a tear that never fell.
"She's at the northern watchtower. Go."
Levi bows—shallow, precise—and exits.
The northern watchtower rises from an obsidian cliff like a shattered spine.
Wind howls through its hollow ribs.
She is already there.
Standing at the edge.
Looking down into an endless abyss where violet lightning forks forever.
Levi approaches.
Three steps behind.
One step to the left.
He stops.
Waits.
Silence stretches—long enough to hurt.
Finally, her voice cuts through the wind.
"You're smaller than the last one."
The last one.
She has had Servants before.
Levi remains silent.
She turns.
The mask hides everything except her mouth—pale lips, drained of warmth.
"What is your name?"
"Levi, Master."
"Don't call me that."
The words hit harder than the Seraph lance.
Levi blinks.
She steps closer.
One step.
Two.
Close enough that Levi sees the fracture in her mask is fresh—still bleeding shadow ichor.
"Call me Aria."
The Protocol stirs.
Chains tighten inside Levi's soul—warning, resisting. Every previous master had carved the same rule into him.
Master.
Lord.
Always.
He tests the word.
"Yes… Aria."
It tastes wrong.
Dangerous.
Almost like something he isn't allowed to have.
She studies him for a long moment.
Then reaches out and presses her fingers against his chest—where the spear pierced him earlier.
Her hand comes away stained black.
"You blocked for him."
Not a question.
"Yes."
"Even though he treated you like trash."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Levi does not answer.
He could say the Protocol made him.
That choice had never existed.
That somewhere around the eighty-seventh master, the difference stopped mattering.
Instead—
"It is what Servants do."
She withdraws her hand.
"Not anymore."
SFX: SCREEE—
The chains inside his soul scream.
Aria turns back toward the abyss.
"Tomorrow, the Winged Monarch launches a full assault on the Fracture Line. We hold the northern flank."
A pause.
"You will stand beside me. Not behind."
Levi swallows.
"Beside… is not the position of a Servant."
"I know."
She glances over her shoulder.
One corner of her mouth lifts—not quite a smile.
"That's why I asked for you."
The wind howls louder.
Lightning claws across the false sky.
Levi tightens his grip on Kargan's axe.
114 masters.
This one already feels different.
He doesn't know if that's mercy—
—or the beginning of something far worse.