The forest that once roared with life was now silent.
Too silent.
The air was thick with ash, and a sickening metallic scent lingered—the smell of burnt flesh and blood.
Leonhard walked forward, his cloak brushing against the charred earth, his steps growing heavier with each passing moment. His knights followed, their faces grim, their hands clutching their weapons tightly—not out of fear, but because they could not stop themselves from trembling.
A battlefield.
A massacre.
But there were no bodies.
Only the twisted remnants of armor, blades melted by impossible heat, and shadows burned into the ground.
The Sword Saint's breathing slowed as he absorbed the scene. His heart pounded violently in his chest—a war drum echoing his worst fears.
Where were they?
Where were his knights?
Where were his children?
"Sir…" one knight choked out, falling to his knees as the weight of the destruction crushed his spirit. "This… this isn't something any of us could've survived."
Leonhard's jaw clenched. He didn't answer. He didn't even look at him.
His eyes—sharp as the blade on his hip—raced across the broken land.
Scorch marks that spiraled into craters. Trees ripped from their roots, hurled by storm-like winds.
The destruction stretched for miles.
Arthur. Theresia. Where are you?
His chest tightened, suffocating him. His heartbeat thundered louder, threatening to burst.
Please… don't let me be too late…
He sprinted.
The world around him blurred as he flickered through the rubble with terrifying speed. His knights shouted behind him, but their voices were drowned beneath the storm inside his head.
In the center of the wasteland, something caught his eye—a giant, unnatural boulder.
It was covered in jagged layers of rock and ice, fused together by elemental energy. It pulsed faintly, a last defense.
Leonhard's hands trembled, not from exhaustion but from desperation.
With a sharp breath, he pressed his palm against the boulder and whispered, "If you're in there… if you're alive… don't you dare die on me."
With a flicker of his finger, the rock cracked.
Again. And again. His energy surged until the stone shattered, spraying shards in every direction.
His breath caught.
Inside—
There they were.
Asrial's small, battered body curled around Theresia, his wings limp but wrapped tightly around her. His arms trembled from holding her for so long, but he never let go.
The boy's back was covered in deep gashes, and his scales were cracked, yet his grip never loosened.
Around them, vines and glowing herbs had grown from Asrial's own hands, their faint light still fighting to keep them alive.
"…You little idiot…" Leonhard muttered, his throat tightening, his eyes burning. "You actually… you protected her."
His body moved on its own.
The proud Sword Saint—the man feared by nations—collapsed to his knees.
He should have kept his composure.
He should have been the unshakable pillar his kingdom knew.
But in this moment, he was just a father.
Tears gathered at the edge of his vision, and a laugh—a broken, relieved laugh—escaped his throat.
"You did it… you actually did it… you stupid, wonderful brat…"
The knights finally caught up, stunned into silence as they saw the two unconscious children wrapped in the remnants of battle.
One of the younger knights whispered, "He… he survived that?"
Leonhard gently brushed Asrial's hair from his face, his voice cracking.
"You're not Arthur anymore, huh? Asrial… you really are something else."
With a deep breath, Leonhard carefully lifted them both in his arms.
"I promised I'd protect you. I promised your father. I'm not letting you go now."
As he stood, the weight of responsibility returned to his shoulders, but now it was doubled.
If the church did this… if they dared come this close…
They won't stop. They'll never stop.
Leonhard's eyes hardened as he looked over the destroyed forest.
The next time they come, I'll make sure they understand who they're dealing with.
"Let's go," he ordered, his voice returning to its commanding tone. "We're going home."
The knights bowed, and the party quickly retreated toward the capital.
Somewhere else. Somewhere cold.
A throne room basked in eerie candlelight. Shadows flickered on stone walls, and the air itself felt heavy with decay. Five figures kneeled in silence, their heads bowed before a woman whose presence devoured all light.
Her violet eyes glowed like cursed gems, her purple hair cascading down her shoulders.
The Queen of the Dead. Castorice.
On the cold throne, she sat, her fingers lazily tapping against the armrest.
The silence was broken by a familiar voice.
"My Queen… I must apologize for my failure." The Shadow King kept his head lowered, his face hidden by his hood. "The boy—Asrial—he was… far more capable than I anticipated."
A ripple of tension spread among the bishops.
A man with blood-red eyes and hair, leaning casually against a pillar, chuckled mockingly.
"The mighty Shadow King, defeated by a boy barely fourteen and his little fiancée. Perhaps you've grown rusty."
The Shadow King remained silent.
Red, the Motionless Blade, smirked. "Perhaps you should have asked me to clean up your mess. A single swing of my hammer—"
"Enough." Castorice's voice sliced through the room like a blade.
Cold. Absolute.
Red's smirk faded instantly.
"We mustn't underestimate the boy." Castorice's eyes burned with quiet calculation. "His potential has surfaced much sooner than I predicted."
Another bishop, cloaked and silent, finally spoke, his voice smooth like silk.
"Was it not your plan to provoke his awakening? Perhaps this is progressing as intended."
The Shadow King dared to raise his head slightly. "My Queen… there is more. During the battle, his attacks… they were not the simple elemental manipulations of this world. His power—no, his very existence—mirrored the heretical arts forbidden by the Creator's system."
Castorice's eyes narrowed, but her lips curved into a small, satisfied smile.
"The relics' resonance… the boy's awakening… it seems fate is finally moving."
Red crossed his arms, annoyed. "So, what now? Do we strike again? Or do you intend to let this 'little dragon' grow?"
Castorice rested her chin on her hand, a glimmer of excitement in her gaze.
"No. I will handle this personally. He will soon enter the Academy, and so will our 'vessel.'"
Her fingers traced an invisible pattern in the air.
"They will meet. They will bond. And I will guide them from the shadows."
The Shadow King bowed deeply. "As you command, my Queen."
"Let him grow," Castorice whispered, her voice like velvet and poison. "Let him reach the height of his power, only to learn it was I who wrote his story all along."
The room echoed with the soft sound of her laughter as the bishops vanished into the shadows, leaving behind only their Queen, whose eyes glimmered with ancient secrets.