The shadow spear 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.
The spear's haft hums faintly, shadows coiling and uncoiling along its length like a restless heartbeat.
Levi lets its tip drag behind him.
SFX: SKRRRR—
The spearhead carves a thin, screaming line through bone dust and shattered armor as he walks.
The battlefield is quiet now.
Too quiet.
The Seraph host has withdrawn, leaving behind only the whisper of poisoned wind and the slow, inevitable unmaking of the dead. Of the nineteen shadows that formed the rearguard, 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 writhing violet lightning above, already dim, 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.
An old habit.
Useless words.
The Protocol does not punish apologies.
It only punishes disobedience.
A notification flickers at the edge of his vision—small, persistent.
⊳ Unclaimed Essence Detected:
Berserker's Will Fragment [A-Rank]
⊳ Bind to Weapon?
Y / N
Levi selects Yes.
SFX: THRUM—
The shadow spear convulses.
Its form elongates, sharpening into something crueler, denser. Runes slither across the blackened shaft like living scars, carving Kargan's true name into the weapon in a language older than grief.
The shadows drink deeply.
The spear remembers.
Levi rises.
On the horizon, the resurrection spires loom—towering black obelisks impaling the cloud-ceiling of the Abyss. 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 his back on the spires and walks the opposite way.
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, hissing, screaming softly. Banners flap overhead, soaked in blood and sulfur.
Shadows move everywhere.
Soldier-class drones with hollow eyes. Warriors and Mages barter stolen skills like currency, laughter sharp and ugly.
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 masters like execution notices.
It doesn't look up.
"Name and class."
"Levi. Servant."
A pause.
The hood tilts slightly.
"You're early. Shadow Kargan's dissolution isn't complete."
"He died."
"Obviously."
The Administrator taps the slate. Violet glyphs cascade.
"Unusual. Most Servants crawl to resurrection first. You came directly here."
Levi says nothing.
The hood tilts further, as if trying to peer into his soul.
"Protocol intact?"
"Yes."
"No recorded violations?"
"None."
Another tap.
"Then reassignment is authorized. Effective immediately."
The slate projects a hologram into the air.
A woman clad in fractured silver armor.
Wings of blackened feathers folded tightly 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. No justification provided. Most believe she wants a disposable scout."
Levi stares at the image.
The mask bears a hairline fracture through the left eye.
Like a tear that never fell.
"She's stationed 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.
Staring down into the 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.
SFX: CREAK—
Chains tighten inside Levi's soul—warning, resisting. Every master before her had carved the same law into him.
Master.
Lord.
Owner.
He tests the word.
"Yes… Aria."
It tastes wrong.
Dangerous.
Almost like something forbidden.
She studies him for a long moment.
Then reaches out and presses her fingers against his chest—where the Seraph lance once tore through him.
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 forced 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."
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 the shadow spear, shadows curling eagerly around his fingers.
114 masters.
This one already feels different.
He doesn't know if that is mercy—
—or the beginning of something far worse.