Several days passed.
Beneath a bright, cloud-dappled sky, the cheers of the crowd thundered through the arena of the Goddess' Trial—a gladiator-style battleground where honor and ability were tested before the masses.
On the roof of one of the spectator stands, Gabriel sat at ease, watching the examination unfold.
Out of the many participants who stepped into the arena, only a handful were truly granted the chance to face a Warrior Spirit.
The rest were dismissed—never once deemed worthy.
Sheltered under a simple umbrella, Gabriel enjoyed a crispy fried fish sandwich—its official name long forgotten—paired with a glass of cold cola.
His relaxed presence went completely unnoticed. The perception of the audience had been tampered with through Gigan, a thin barrier layered over his position, while dark matter dispersed just enough to erase his existence from surrounding awareness.
"Nom nom," Gabriel mumbled while chewing. "Not bad. Tastes pretty close to the original back on Earth."
He took a sip of his cola.
"Fyuuh~," he exhaled in satisfaction, smiling faintly. "Even the cola's the same. Worth it… while waiting for my turn, I dropped back home for a bit, then came back to watch."
Just as he'd said, Gabriel had actually been watching the Goddess' Trial since morning. He had simply made a brief trip back to Alexandria in between.
With Gigan—capable of capturing the existence of anything from afar as long as he had seen its aura before—Gabriel had observed Shadow Garden conducting food development experiments for Mitsugoshi's restaurant line.
Coincidentally, one of the test products turned out to be perfect as a spectator snack.
As for why he still hadn't moved since morning, the reason was simple.
He was waiting for an opening.
The food and drink were soon finished.
Gabriel deliberately set the trash down beside him, his gaze returning to the arena—this time sharper, more focused.
Not on the contestants.
But on the protective magecraft covering the battleground, forming a transparent dome.
"Impressive system," Gabriel murmured. "A magic-based security framework to prevent outside interference with the match."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
His right hand rose, and he studied his own palm.
Mana began flowing through his body—smooth, precise, completely under control. A moment later, a pale white spell formed above his palm, its surface filled with neatly arranged ancient characters.
"Even so," Gabriel murmured softly, "the spells in this world… aren't complicated at all."
The corner of his lips lifted faintly.
"With just a slight adjustment, I can already use them. Even rewrite their formula," he continued casually, "and register myself… as an official participant."
The spell slowly dispersed, breaking apart into particles of mana that dissolved into the air.
"If I start now…" Gabriel muttered, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Then all that's left is opening the Sanctuary's gate, huh?"
He gave a small shake of his head.
"Well, that can wait. Opening the Sanctuary Gate safely," he said calmly, "requires specific conditions."
His gaze returned to the arena.
The crowd's cheers thundered once more, filling the air—yet to Gabriel, it all felt distant, as if muffled behind a mist only he could sense.
A faint smile curved his lips.
"The answer's simple," he murmured, almost like a conclusion that no longer needed doubt.
"Defeat the Warrior Spirit."
Several hours later, the sun sank beyond the western horizon.
He rose to his feet.
"It's time," he said calmly. "Let Ash… raise his stage."
Gabriel lifted both hands before his face—slowly, reverently—as though the world itself had been ordered to hold its breath.
"Blast the reality," Gabriel uttered.
His voice was low, almost a whisper, yet its echo spread through space and layers of existence, as if the laws of nature were being forced to listen.
At once, his left palm covered half his face. From between his fingers, a single gaze emerged—cold, absolute, devoid of emotion.
"Burst into shreds," he continued.
Meanwhile, his right hand extended forward, fingers spread, as though grasping destruction that had yet to be born.
"Vanishment."
A moment of silence followed.
"This world."
The next instant, pale white mist spread from his body, rapidly engulfing the entire area.
Seeing the sudden change, the spectators reacted at once.
"Huh… what is that?"
"Why did it suddenly get foggy?!"
"Hey—I can't see the arena!"
The cheers collapsed into an uproar. Several people shot to their feet on reflex, leaning forward, trying to pierce the thick mist now hanging in the air.
"This is part of the Goddess' Trial, right?"
"It should be… but why does this feel weird?"
"Oi! Grab my hand—I almost fell!"
Amid the crowd came the screech of seats, hurried footsteps, and small cries of confusion.
Some covered their noses, others waved their hands in front of their faces, even though the mist had no smell—only a strange, biting chill.
"The barrier's still there!"
"Calm down, calm down—nothing's happening, right?!"
Yet the unease continued to spread.
Visibility shrank, the direction of voices felt distorted, and distance itself seemed to lose meaning.
Some spectators began to feel as if the arena itself was drifting away, even though they hadn't moved an inch.
"I… why does it feel like I'm all alone?"
"You were just beside me, right?"
No explosions.
No tremors.
Only a creeping silence, swallowing the cheers one by one.
And unnoticed by anyone in the stands—behind the pale white mist that fell like a stage curtain—the real performance finally began.
In the VIP section, a bishop sat upright, watching the proceedings with sharp, piercing eyes.
Around him, several prominent nobles were present, their faces turning serious as the mist swallowed the arena.
The personal guards of the nobles immediately moved, tightening their ranks and standing fully alert.
Their hands gripped swords, their gazes sweeping across the stands, wary of any possible threat.
Meanwhile, the bishop raised his hand slightly.
"Find out what's happening," he ordered, short and calm.
Several subordinates immediately nodded and dispersed, descending the stands and moving along the edge of the arena.
They tried to push through the thick hanging mist—while the bishop remained still in his seat, staring toward the center of the arena with an expression that was impossible to read.
In the middle of the arena, the pale mist gradually thinned.
As if parted by a veil of boundless emptiness, the figure of a white-haired man came into view.
He wore a black trench coat, adorned with silver ornaments on his shoulders that caught the faint light behind the fog.
The figure was Gabriel—dressed in his Ash persona.
At this moment, Gabriel no longer appeared as a seven-year-old child.
Just before entering the arena, he had used his Slime Weapon to reshape his body, giving himself a fully grown appearance.
In an instant, the spectators' attention was drawn to the mysterious figure.
Amid the growing commotion, Gabriel's mind raced, composing his own private narrative.
Confusion, fear, and apprehension blended together among the nobles and commoners alike who filled the stands.
Those feelings merged, planting the first seeds of chaos.
Amid the unfolding scene—Ash. No, a mysterious man had emerged from the pale mist.
Who was he?
What was his purpose?
Countless questions swirled without answers.
Elsewhere, the nobles' soldiers and the bishop's subordinates were about to advance, yet their steps faltered, held back by hesitation.
No one knew what might emerge next from the mist.
A slow grin formed on Gabriel's face.
This… was the perfect stage.
Gabriel then extended his right hand forward.
The magical energy within him surged, causing the pale mist around him to react—whirling and curling like an invisible vortex.
"O souls decayed in eternal suffering," Gabriel intoned, his voice calm and deep, "lamenting the endless past…"
A brief silence fell.
"Ash commands you," he continued, "reveal your form."
Blood-red mana suddenly erupted from the arena floor, gushing forth like a pulse laid bare.
In the sky, a colossal Spell took shape—a deep crimson triangle, each side inscribed with ancient runes, while a looping Ouroboros symbol encircled it, locking the three sides together.
The air trembled.
Slowly but surely, the Spell did not stop at a single layer. Additional formations appeared above and below it—more intricate, interlocking, layered like a flawlessly constructed magical machine.
In the VIP stands, the bishop's expression froze.
He hadn't activated any magical mechanism.
"How is this…!?" he muttered, his voice filled with uncontainable shock.
At the same time, three armored female silhouettes appeared in the air—with one more woman standing slightly behind them.
Their bodies hovered for a moment before gradually descending toward the arena.
The magical energy enveloping them thickened, then materialized, revealing their true forms one by one.
The first was an elf, her face bearing a striking resemblance to Alpha.
On her head rested a light blue magical talisman with golden accents, adorning her forehead and the sides of her cheeks, forming a helmet-like silhouette that seemed fused with her very being.
She was Olivier—the ancient Hero, ancestor of Alpha and Beatrix.
The second was a Thrianthrope cat, her facial features reminiscent of Zeta. She wore a blood-red cheongsam, partially covered by armor that clung to her body with deadly precision.
She was Lili—the Hero, ancestor of Zeta and Delta.
The third, standing in the center, was a human with short silver-white hair and sharp red eyes, clad in simple yet sturdy green armor.
She was Freya—the Hero, ancestor of Alexia Midgard and Claire.
All three shared one striking feature.
Their eyes were empty.
No emotion.
No will.
Only the remnants of past glory—now resurrected onto the battlefield.
___
Author's note:
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