As Asta drifted off to sleep, the darkness of his room gave way to a vivid, unsettling dream. He found himself siitting at a desk in a grand, regal-looking room, the kind of place that exuded authority and power. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries, and the floor was made of polished marble that reflected the flickering light of a large chandelier overhead.

In front of him stood Laplace, his red eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The room felt suffocating, as if the weight of centuries pressed down on them both. Laplace was dressed in fine robes, far more regal than the attire Asta had seen him in before. There was an air of familiarity in the way Laplace carried himself, as if this room—this conversation—was something they had shared countless times before.

"Astaroth," Laplace began, his voice smooth but laced with an undercurrent of tension, "you can't possibly be serious about this. I can tell you have no idea what meddling with the past can do. The repercussions could be disastrous, not just for you, but for everyone."

Asta—or was he Astaroth?—felt a surge of determination mixed with confusion. His own voice sounded distant, almost like someone else's. "I need to repair what was broken," Asta found himself saying, the words flowing out of him as if they belonged to someone else. "I need to save them."

Laplace's eyes narrowed, a shadow passing over his face. "Man, did Liebe put you up to this again? Emperor, do you truly understand what you're asking me to do? Time is not a simple thread that can be unwoven and rewoven at will. The consequences of altering the past are beyond our comprehension."

Asta blinked, a feeling of unease creeping into his mind. He couldn't quite grasp what Laplace was implying, but the urgency in his chest pushed him forward. "What Liebe said to me has absolutely nothing to do this. I don't care about the risks," he said, though there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. "I just know that I have to do something. I can't let things stay the way they are."

Laplace sighed deeply, his expression shifting from concern to something more resigned, almost weary. "You don't understand, Astaroth. The past is not a toy for us to manipulate. It's a force that can break you, shatter everything you know. Are you truly willing to pay that price?"

Asta hesitated, the words hanging in the air between them. The room seemed to grow darker, the shadows deepening as if responding to the weight of their conversation. He felt a growing sense of dread, but he couldn't pinpoint why. "What price?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Laplace's eyes gleamed with an almost sadistic glint, though his voice remained eerily calm. "The worst, Emperor? The worst is that you lose everything. Not just those you seek to save, but yourself as well. You risk unraveling the very fabric of your existence."

The scene wavered, the edges of the room blurring as if it were melting into another memory. Suddenly, Asta was no longer in the office but instead standing in a dark room. He saw the girl again, her silver hair stained with blood, lying lifeless on the ground, a stone spike driven through her chest. The sight tore through him like a blade, the pain of her loss ripping open old wounds that he had tried so hard to bury.

"Noelle!" he cried out, rushing to her side, but as he reached her, the scene shifted again.

He was back in the regal room, but it was different now—darker, colder. Laplace stood in the same spot, but his expression had hardened, his eyes colder. "You can't change your past without destroying someone else's. Noelle's fate was sealed the moment you started this game of yours."

Asta's heart pounded in his chest. He didn't understand what Laplace was talking about. He hadn't done anything yet—had he? The memories—or were they visions?—swirled around him, disjointed and confusing. "I don't… I haven't tried to change anything yet! What are you talking about?"

Laplace's gaze bore into him, and for a moment, Asta thought he saw a flicker of pity in those crimson eyes. "Astaroth… it's more than likely you already have."

The room wavered again, and Asta found himself in another scene—this time in a dimly lit forest, where shadowy figures moved around him, their faces obscured. He could hear voices—familiar and yet distorted—echoing around him. Names and phrases slipped through his grasp, as if his mind refused to make sense of them.

"They're gone, Astaroth," a voice whispered, sounding both like Laplace and someone else entirely. "You can't bring them back."

The forest melted away, and Asta was back in the regal room, though the walls now seemed to pulse with a dark, foreboding energy. Laplace looked at him with a mixture of pity and resignment.

"If you're so determined to repair your past," Laplace said, his tone almost mocking now, "I'll do exactly what you ask. But don't say I didn't warn you when everything you hold dear crumbles to dust."

Asta's resolve wavered, confusion and fear creeping into his mind. He hadn't even tried to mess with the past—he hadn't even known it was possible. But the images of the girl— Noelle's death, the distorted memories of others, and the sense of loss gnawed at him, driving him to desperation. "You know that I can't just stand by and do nothing!"

Laplace's expression softened slightly, though there was a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. "I understand how you feel, Astaroth, but you will eventually come to realize that some things are better left untouched."

Before Asta could respond, the scene shifted once more. The regal room began to dissolve, the walls crumbling like sand, and Asta was plunged into darkness. He felt himself falling, the weight of his confusion pulling him down into an abyss of uncertainty.

Laplace's voice echoed in the void, distant and fading. "Remember, Astaroth… you can't save them all."

Asta awoke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He was back in his dorm room, the familiar surroundings doing little to ease the lingering terror from the dream. His hands were trembling, and a cold sweat clung to his skin.

Asta sat on the edge of his bed, the remnants of the dream still swirling in his mind like a dark fog. He tried to calm his racing heart, but the echoes of Laplace's words continued to haunt him.

"Remember, Astaroth… you can't save them all."

The names "Astaroth" and "Emperor" clung to him like a curse, titles that felt both alien and disturbingly familiar. He didn't understand why Laplace had called him that or what the dream meant, but the intensity of it left him shaken. The image of Noelle, lying lifeless on the ground, her silver hair stained with blood, was seared into his memory. He could still feel the anguish, the desperation that had driven him to try and save her—though he hadn't even known he could change the past.

But had he? The dream, or memory, was so vivid, so real. It was as if he had already attempted something, something that had dire consequences. Yet, Asta had no memory of ever doing so in reality. The lines between what was real and what was imagined blurred in his mind, leaving him feeling disoriented and afraid.

Asta rubbed his temples, trying to dispel the confusion. He couldn't afford to lose himself in this—whatever this was. He needed clarity, answers, but where could he find them? The dream had felt like a warning, but what exactly was it warning him against? And who was "Liebe," the name that Laplace had mentioned?

The darkness of his room felt oppressive, closing in on him as the silence grew louder. Asta stood up, feeling the need to move, to do something to shake off the lingering dread. He walked over to the window and pushed it open, letting the cool night air wash over him. The sky outside was a deep, inky black, dotted with stars that seemed to pulse with a distant, cold light. Wait, why was it still night?

And the night sky looked different—too dark, too distant. The stars seemed to flicker unnaturally, like flames sputtering in a dying fire. The ground beneath his feet shifted, the wooden floor of his dorm room now feeling cold and smooth, like polished marble.

Asta turned back toward his room, but it wasn't his room anymore. He found himself standing in a long, winding corridor, the walls lined with ancient, faded tapestries that moved as if breathing. The air was thick with a strange mist, and his footsteps echoed unnaturally, the sound stretching out and distorting as if time itself was unraveling.

Asta moved forward, each step feeling both heavy and insubstantial, as if he were walking through water. The corridor twisted and turned, leading him deeper into the unknown. Shadows flickered in the corners of his vision, shapes and figures that vanished whenever he tried to focus on them.

He reached a door at the end of the corridor, a heavy wooden door marked with ancient runes that glowed faintly. Asta hesitated, his hand hovering over the door's handle. The air seemed to hum with energy, a low, throbbing pulse that resonated in his bones. The runes on the door began to twist and shift, forming shapes that he couldn't understand, yet felt as if he should.

Steeling himself, Asta pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room beyond was dimly lit, the walls lined with shelves filled with ancient tomes and artifacts. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dust, but there was something more—something dark, something that made the hair on the back of Asta's neck stand on end.

At the far end of the room stood a large, ornate mirror framed in dark, twisted wood. Its surface was black, like a void that absorbed all light. Asta felt a strange pull toward it, an invisible force drawing him closer, compelling him to look.

As he approached the mirror, the room seemed to stretch and warp, the shelves bending and twisting in ways that defied logic. The light from the glowing orbs flickered, casting eerie, dancing shadows that seemed to reach out toward him.

Asta stared into the mirror, his breath catching in his throat. The reflection that stared back at him was not his own. It was older, more worn, with eyes that had seen too much. The face in the mirror was gaunt, with shadows under the eyes that made them look hollow and empty.

Asta tried to look away, but he couldn't. The reflection began to change, the features twisting and warping into something grotesque. The eyes darkened, turning a deep, bloody red, the skin turned paper-white and the mouth curled into a sinister, knowing smile.

The mirror rippled like water, and the reflection leaned forward, as if it were trying to step out of the glass and into the room. Asta felt a surge of panic, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to back away, but his feet were rooted to the spot.

The reflection's mouth moved, but no sound came out. The room began to shake, the shelves rattling and the air growing thick with a low, droning hum that filled Asta's ears. The mirror's surface rippled more violently, distorting the reflection into a nightmarish visage that grinned wider and wider, the smile stretching impossibly across its face.

Then, suddenly, the mirror shattered, the sound deafening in the stillness of the room. Shards of glass flew toward Asta, but instead of cutting him, they passed through him, dissolving into nothingness.

Asta gasped, his eyes flying open as he bolted upright in bed. His heart pounded in his chest, and his skin was clammy with sweat. He was back in his dorm room, the familiar surroundings reassuring yet tinged with the lingering terror of the dream.

The darkness of the night pressed in around him, but the oppressive weight of the dream had lifted. Asta ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his breathing, trying to convince himself that it had just been a nightmare.

But as he sat there, the memory of the dream refused to fade, clinging to his thoughts like a dark shadow. The image of the twisted reflection, the shattered mirror, and the ominous words whispered by Laplace echoed in his mind.

"Remember, Astaroth… you can't save them all."

Wait, it's still night?

Asta lay back down, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts racing. The line between dream and reality had blurred, and he was left with more questions than answers.

Asta lay back down, trying to convince himself that he was awake, that the terror had passed. But as he stared up at the ceiling, the darkness above him began to shift and swirl, forming patterns that made his head spin. The room felt like it was stretching, the walls bending and twisting as if the very fabric of reality was unraveling.

The sensation of falling gripped him once again, pulling him down into the abyss of his mind. He tried to fight it, to cling to the waking world, but it was like trying to hold onto smoke. The dream had never truly ended—it was pulling him back, deeper than before.

Asta found himself standing in the same grand, regal-looking room, but this time, the atmosphere was even heavier, more oppressive. The walls seemed to close in around him, and the air was thick with the scent of burning incense, suffocating and cloying. The tapestries on the walls depicted scenes of battles and bloodshed, their colors more vivid, almost pulsating with a life of their own.

Laplace was there again, standing in the center of the room. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with an intensity that made Asta's skin crawl. The fine robes he wore now seemed more like a shroud, dark and foreboding, as if they were woven from shadows themselves.

"You've come back," Laplace said, his voice echoing strangely in the room, as if coming from all directions at once. "I told you, Astaroth, you can't escape this. The past clings to you, like a curse you can't shake off."

Asta opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. The words were trapped in his throat, strangled by the weight of the dream. He tried to move, but his body felt sluggish, like he was wading through thick, invisible currents.

"You think you can change what's already been set in motion?" Laplace continued, his tone almost mocking. "You think you can save them, rewrite the past as if it were nothing more than a story in a book?"

The room darkened further, the light from the chandelier flickering and dimming until it was almost pitch black. The only source of illumination came from Laplace's eyes, glowing with an eerie red light that seemed to pierce through the darkness.

Asta felt a cold hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Noelle standing beside him. Her silver hair was matted with blood, her eyes vacant and lifeless. She reached out to him, her fingers cold and stiff, as if she were already dead.

"You can't save me, Astaroth," Noelle's voice whispered, though her lips didn't move. "You couldn't save any of us."

Asta's heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of guilt and desperation clawing at him. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her close and tell her that he would find a way, that he would fix everything. But his hands wouldn't move, his body frozen in place by an unseen force.

"You've already lost them," Laplace said, his voice now cold and distant. "Every attempt you make, every effort to change the past, only brings you closer to ruin."

The walls of the room began to crumble, the tapestries unraveling as if they were made of threads that dissolved into ash. The ground beneath Asta's feet shifted, cracking and splitting open, revealing a dark void below. He could feel himself being pulled toward it, the emptiness beckoning him to fall, to give in to the despair that gnawed at his soul.

"You can't escape your fate, Astaroth," Laplace's voice whispered, now coming from the void itself. "You can't change what's already been written."

Asta felt the ground give way beneath him, and he plunged into the darkness, falling through an endless abyss. The wind roared in his ears, carrying with it the voices of those he had lost, each one a knife in his heart.

Noelle. "You failed me…"

Lilith. "Why couldn't you save me…?"

Yami. "Why did I ever let this runt in my squad…?"

Liebe. "I knew you were stupid… but not this much…"

Unfamiliar voices, distant and echoing, filled his mind with accusations and sorrow. Asta tried to scream, to claw his way back to the light, but the darkness consumed him, swallowing him whole.

As he fell deeper into the void, the darkness began to change. Shapes and figures formed around him, ghostly apparitions that floated in the air like twisted, distorted memories. They reached out to him with skeletal hands, their faces hidden in shadow, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light.

Asta recognized them—warriors, mages, people he had known in another life, people he had fought alongside and lost. Their voices filled his mind, a cacophony of despair and regret.

"You promised…"

"You swore you would protect us…"

"You can't bring us back…"

The voices overlapped, merging into a single, infinite mournful wail that reverberated through the void. Asta's heart ached with the weight of their accusations, the burden of their lost lives pressing down on him like a suffocating shroud.

"I… I'm sorry," Asta whispered, though the words felt hollow, lost in the sea of voices that surrounded him. "I didn't know… I didn't understand…"

But the voices wouldn't relent. They swirled around him, tearing at his mind, dragging him deeper into the abyss. The darkness grew thicker, more suffocating, until Asta could no longer breathe, could no longer think.

And then, just as the last vestiges of his consciousness began to slip away, a light appeared in the distance. It was faint, barely more than a pinprick, but it pierced through the darkness like a beacon of hope.

Asta reached out for it, the last of his strength pushing him toward the light. The voices tried to pull him back, but he resisted, his will to survive overpowering the despair that threatened to consume him.

The light grew brighter, warmer, enveloping him in a comforting embrace. The voices faded, the darkness receded, and Asta felt himself being lifted up, away from the abyss, away from the nightmare that had trapped him.

As Asta opened his eyes, the comfort gave way to a chilling cold that seeped into his bones. He found himself standing in a vast, desolate landscape. The sky above was a swirling mass of dark clouds, crackling with ominous energy, casting everything in a sickly, reddish hue.

Before him, the ground stretched out endlessly, barren and cracked, like the surface of a dying world. The air was thick with the smell of decay, and the distant sound of wind howling through the empty plains sent a shiver down his spine.

Asta looked around, disoriented. There was no sign of the Academy, no sign of life at all. Just an endless expanse of nothingness. He felt a deep sense of dread settling in his chest, an instinctual fear of the unknown that gnawed at him.

Then, from the distance, a figure emerged—a silhouette against the dark horizon, growing larger as it approached. Asta strained his eyes, trying to make out who it was. As the figure drew closer, he recognized the familiar form of Laplace, his regal robes flowing behind him, but now tattered like the remains of a forgotten king.

Laplace's face was unreadable, his eyes gleaming with that same mix of curiosity and concern that Asta had seen before. But there was something different now—something darker, more menacing. He walked with a slow, deliberate pace, as if every step he took brought him closer to some inevitable conclusion.

"Astaroth," Laplace called out, his voice carrying across the desolate plain, echoing unnaturally in the empty air. "You've done this much, but do you truly remember what you're searching for?"

Asta's heart pounded in his chest as he watched Laplace approach. He wanted to speak, to demand answers, but his voice felt trapped in his throat, the words tangled in his fear and confusion.

Laplace stopped a few paces away from him, his eyes boring into Asta's with an intensity that made him want to look away. "You think you can change the past," Laplace continued, his tone soft but filled with a weight that made the words sink deep into Asta's mind. "But every action has a consequence, Astaroth. You'll find that the price is too high, even for you. The question is when."

Asta swallowed hard, finally finding his voice. "I don't understand," he said, his words shaky. "I haven't done anything…"

Laplace's expression softened, but it was tinged with something that looked like disappointment—or perhaps resignation. "You… are such an idiot. You see this scene around you and still believe you have done nothing?"

The ground beneath them began to tremble, cracks spidering out from where Laplace stood, glowing with an eerie light. The landscape around them shifted, the sky darkening even further as the wind picked up, howling like a chorus of lost souls.

Asta tried to steady himself, but the ground was unsteady, as if the very world was breaking apart beneath his feet. "What is this?" he cried out, his voice filled with panic. "What's happening?"

Laplace raised a hand, and the trembling stopped, but the cracks remained, glowing ominously. "This is your present, Astaroth," Laplace said, his voice calm yet filled with a chilling certainty. "This is the path you walk when you seek to alter the past. You cannot change what has been without causing ripples that affect everything that is and will be."

Asta's mind raced, trying to make sense of the chaos around him. The memories of Noelle's death, the twisted reflection in the mirror, the dark landscape before him—it all felt like a warning, a glimpse into a future that he didn't want to believe could be his.

"No," Asta whispered, shaking his head. "There has to be another way. I won't let this happen."

Laplace's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. "You're a fool if you think you can escape the consequences of your actions. You may be an emperor, but emperors can never be gods."

The ground trembled again, the cracks widening, and from within them, dark, shadowy figures began to emerge. They were twisted, nightmarish forms, their bodies writhing and shifting as if made of smoke and darkness. Their eyes glowed with a malevolent light, and they moved toward Asta with a terrifying inevitability.

Asta stepped back, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the darkness closing in around him, the shadows reaching out with grasping hands. He tried to summon his magic, but it felt distant, unresponsive, as if the powers were never really his own.

Laplace watched him, his expression inscrutable. "This is the price. The past is not a thread to be unraveled and rewoven at will. It is a web, intricate and interconnected, and when you pull at one strand, you risk tearing the whole."

The shadowy figures drew closer, their forms growing more distinct, more familiar. Asta could see faces in the darkness—twisted, agonized faces that seemed to scream silently, their mouths open in eternal torment, all of whom Asta recognized.

He backed away, fear gripping him. "What do I do?" he pleaded, his voice breaking. "How do I fix this?"

Laplace shook his head slowly, a look of deep sadness crossing his face. "You cannot reverse what has already been done, Astaroth. You can only choose whether you will stop it from continuing."

The shadows closed in, their dark forms looming over Asta, blocking out the light, the sky, everything. He felt a cold, suffocating pressure as they reached for him, their fingers like icy claws.

Asta screamed, the sound echoing in the darkness, but no one came to his aid. The shadows enveloped him, dragging him down into the abyss, their cold touch searing into his skin, into his very soul.

"Continuity Magic: Break"

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it all stopped.

He opened his eyes, gasping for breath, his body drenched in sweat. The oppressive darkness of the abyss was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting glow of the morning sun streaming through his dorm room window. The sounds of the Academy waking up drifted in from outside, the distant chatter of students, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, grounding him in reality.

Asta sat up, his heart still pounding, his mind reeling from the dream that had felt all too real. He touched his face, feeling the cool dampness of tears he hadn't realized he'd shed.

Artificial immortality wears at the soul. Stay tuned.