Chapter 5: Birthday Banquet II
"Who are you?" Tristan asked the white-haired man, his voice steady but his eyes wary.
Tristan was suspicious. He never met him in his life.
"Ah, where are my manners?" He said, his voice a silken blend of charm and mischief.
"Allow me to introduce myself, boy. My name is Mephistopheles, or you could simply call me Mephisto." He gave a slight mock-bow, his movements unnervingly fluid, like a shadow shifting against the wall.
"Mephistopheles? Like the devil who made a deal with Faust?" Tristan's eyes went wide.
The name struck a chord deep in his memory, dredging up fragments of myths his mother had once shared. In Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's "Faust", Mephistopheles is portrayed as a cynical and witty character who offers Faust unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures in exchange for his soul.
"Oh! That is fortunate that you know your things, boy! But, yeah, you're right. Books about me are overflowing in the world! Writers have a penchant for dramatizing the truth, of course, it's always fire and brimstone with them, isn't it?" Mephisto's smile widened into a grin.
Tristan took a cautious step back, his body tense. Unconsciously, he laid out his arm towards Latia, shielding her from the devil called Mephisto.
"How noble! A young knight protecting the princess," Mephisto mused, clasping his hands behind his back. "I mean no harm, boy."
"Why should I believe in anything you say?" Tristan's voice sharpened, his hand twitching as he prepared to summon his magic.
"Oh, just as you said, Aju-boy! He's cautious and sharp!" Mephisto said, as he grinned towards the green-haired devil before he looked back towards Tristan
"Because, dear boy, if I wanted to harm you, I wouldn't waste time with introductions and small talk. Besides, you wouldn't stand a chance against me." Mephisto's grin grew wider, his tone dripping with an unsettling mixture of condescension and amusement. "I'm here because I find you… intriguing."
His voice, smooth and sinister, echoed in the grand halls like a whisper carried on a cold wind. Yet despite the devil's words, Tristan found no ounce of lies beneath. The clarity of Mephisto's confidence was more unnerving than any over threat could be.
Tristan's grip tightened on Latia, as he struggled to keep his composure. He had faced horrors before–Augusta and her Incinerate Anthem–but standing before Mephisto was different. The air itself seemed heavier, as though bending to the will of the devil itself.
"You should stop with the act, Mephisto." Ajuka's voice cut through the tension like a blade, calm yet commanding.
The room's atmosphere shifted in an instant. The oppressive weight Mephisto carried seemed to waver, and his sly grin froze before morphing into something resembling sheepish amusement.
"Ah, Aju-boy," Mephisto said, turning towards the green-haired devil, who had been silent. "You always know how to ruin my fun."
"Fun? What's going on here?" Tristan said, his expression a mixture of confusion and slight anger.
"This is Mephistopheles for you–always the dramatist, always the trickster." Ajuka gestured dismissively towards the older devil. "He's not here to harm you, Tristan. Instead, he's here to offer you an opportunity."
"Opportunity? What kind of opportunity" Latia asked, her azure eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Mephisto's grin returned, his heterochromia eyes gleaming with mischief. "Ah, young ones, always the cautious type. Admirable, really." He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace leisurely, his voice taking on a theatrical tone.
"The kind of opportunity that only comes once in a lifetime. A chance to hone your talents, to unlock your potential, to master the gifts that your lineage has bestowed upon you."
Tristan frowned, crossing his arms. "Get to the point."
Mephisto chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "Very well. I've come to extend an invitation–for you to enroll in Grauzauberer, the finest academy of magic in existence. There your potential would be fully flourished. You'll learn not just the magic of your ancestors, but the magic of countless other realms."
Tristan's heart pounded as the words settled. His mind raced with possibilities–an academy where he could learn everything he had ever imagined, where his power could grow exponentially. However, there was one question that echoed louder than the rest.
"Why me?" Tristan asked, his voice steady but carrying the weight of every doubt he had ever felt. "Why offer this to me?"
Mephisto's grin widened, and for a brief moment, his eyes seemed to glint with something deeper. "Ah, the inevitable question," he said, stepping closer to Tristan, his presence becoming almost suffocating. "Why you, indeed? A fair question."
He circled Tristan slowly, his voice low and smooth, as though savoring every word. "You see, Tristan, it's not just about your lineage, though that is, of course, most intriguing. It's not just about Merlin's blood coursing your veins, or your tragic story. No, what makes you special is the potential you carry–not just for yourself, but for others."
Tristan frowned. "For others? What do you mean by that?"
"Ah, yes." Mephisto continued, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "There are two students in the academy whose potential has been left unfulfilled. Powerful, dangerous artifacts dwell in their bodies. They have the potential to change the world… or destroy it. And you, Tristan, are the key to unlocking their full power."
"Wait." Tristan's mind raced as the implications began to sink in. "What are you talking about? Who are these two people? And how does that have anything to do with me?"
Mephisto's eyes gleamed with delight. "Who are those two people? That is an answer for another time. And what does that have to do with you? Simple, you will be their motivation to grow stronger."
Tristan's brow furrowed in confusion. "Motivation? What do you mean? Why me?"
Mephisto leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as though he were sharing a secret meant only for Tristan's ears.
"The two mages I speak of–they are destined for greatness, but their power is dormant, unfulfilled. They have the potential to reshape the world, to shatter the very foundation of the world itself. However, they are stagnant, waiting for the right spark to push them beyond their limits."
Tristan's heart raced. "And I'm supposed to be that spark?"
Mephisto's grin widened. "Precisely. You see, boy, your rage, your grief, your loss– all of it will become the fire that reaches new heights. They are powerful, yes, but without a force to challenge them, they will remain stagnant. You are that force."
Tristan's thoughts raced. "You're saying that these two mages… they need me to get stronger? But why me?! I'm just a kid."
Mephisto's smile went wicked. "Oh, please! You are more than that, Tristan! You only learned magic for a brief time. And yet, here you are! A child, barely beginning to understand the depths of your abilities, and you're holding the weight of the world's most powerful forces already."
Tristan's heart pounded at Mephisto's words. He wanted to argue, to deny that he could be anything special. But the devil's gaze was intense, piercing, and Tristan couldn't shake the feeling that Mephisto could see right through him–into something he didn't even fully understand about himself.
"You've barely scratched the surface, and yet…" Mephisto's voice dropped, his tone almost reverent, "... you've already tapped into something far beyond the reach of ordinary mages. A power, raw and untamed. Be honest with me, when you spar with the Bael child, you don't fight with the intent to kill, right?"
Tristan froze, the words striking deeper than he expected. He had sparred with Sairaorg and Latia, but never with the intent to truly harm them. It was always about testing his limits, learning to control the power he barely understood.
"I didn't…" Tristan started, his voice trailing off, trying to process the intention and weight of Mephisto's words. "I've never… I don't want to hurt them."
Mephisto's eyes gleamed with an almost amused satisfaction. "Exactly! Even the Bael child and Latia could feel it, couldn't they? The power you're holding back. It's there, just beneath the surface, waiting to be set free. They sensed it, though they may not fully understand what it means."
Tristan's gaze shifted involuntarily to Latia, who was standing just a few steps behind him. She met his eyes, her expression a mixture of concern and uncertainty. The weight of Mephisto's words seemed to hang in the air between them.
"Latia," Tristan said, his voice edged with tension. "Tell me the truth. What did you feel when we sparred?"
Latia hesitated for a moment, clearly caught off guard by the sudden intensity in Tristan's voice. She looked away briefly, as if gathering her thoughts, then met his gaze again, her eyes sincere but cautious. She exhaled softly, as though preparing herself for what she was about to say.
"I did feel something," she began, her voice quiet but clear. "The way you fought, there was power in every move, raw, and unrefined. But what stood out the most was that you were holding back, Tristan. Even when I came at you with everything I had, you didn't fully unleash yourself."
She paused, her expression turning more serious, more knowing. "You fight with restraint, but not because you can't handle it. You're holding yourself back on purpose."
Tristan frowned. "What do you mean? I didn't want to hurt y-"
"I know," Latia interrupted, her voice softer now, almost like a confession.
"But that's not what I mean. You've been holding back, not just with me but with everyone. Even when we sparred, even though I fought with the intent to kill, you still pulled your punches." She stepped forward, her eyes searching his face. "You have so much more inside you, Tristan."
The words hit Tristan like a tidal wave. He had always tried to keep his power in check, afraid of losing control, afraid of becoming something monstrous, like her… The Witch.
The image of Augusta, the Witch of the Purple Flame, flashed in his mind. Her power, her ruthlessness, and the fears she instilled to him when that tragedy occurred. Everytime he used his magic, it wasn't just the fear of hurting others that paralyzed him. No, it was the haunting memory of his mother's dying face that left the most impact.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to block it out, but it was always there–those final moments of his mother's life, her eyes wide with terror as she whispered his name, saying 'I love you'
Is it within his power to end Augusta's life?
Will his quest for revenge ultimately be fulfilled?
Is there any way for him to return to the good old days?
What would be next? What would be his life goal after revenge?
Suddenly, several questions popped in his head, each one more difficult to ignore than the last. His mind raced, trying to process everything.
"Latia," Tristan murmured, his voice cracking. He turned to face her, his eyes clouded with uncertainty. "What if I can't do this? What if I'm not strong enough?"
The words seemed to hang in the air, heavier than before, as if the weight of everything he had been carrying finally threatened to crush him. His breaths came in shallow gasps, his chest tightening as the walls he had built to contain his emotions began to crumble.
Latia took a step forward, her face etched with concern. "Tristan, you're not alone in this. You're stronger than you think. You don't have to-"
But Tristan could barely hear her words over the roar of panic filling his mind. He could feel his heart pounding, faster and faster, as though it might burst from his chest. The fear, the self-doubt, the weight of everything he had ever tried to avoid– all of it hit him like a train, dragging him along.
The memories of his mother's death–her face, her final words–swirled in his mind, a haunting specter that paralyzed him. The rage, the grief, the guilt, all mixed together in a storm he could not control.
"No!" Tristan gasped, his voice sharp with panic. He stumbled backward, hands shaking as he gripped his head, trying to stop the onslaught in his head. "I can't… I can't do it!"
Latia reached for him, her voice a mixture of kindness and concern. "Tristan, please, listen to me…"
Tristan couldn't hear her. All he could hear was Augusta's mocking laughter and his mother's dying words, all of it repeating in his head. The tightness in his chest grew worse, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.
His thoughts, once filled with clarity and purpose, had become a blur of conflicting emotions.
"I'm s-sorry." He managed to choke out, barely able to form the correct words.
Before Latia could respond, Tristan turned abruptly, his legs unsteady as he stumbled toward the door. His vision blurred as his breath caught in his throat. The gigantic hall of Astaroth seemed to spin, the weight of his panic suffocating him.
"Tristan, wait!" Latia's voice was distant, but he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't let anyone see him like this, couldn't let them see the weakness that had overtaken him. His entire world felt like it was unraveling, and he had no idea how to hold it together.
He reached the door, throwing it open with a force that made it slam against the wall. Without another word, he rushed into the hallway, his steps uneven and desperate. He could feel his pulse racing, his breath coming in frantic bursts as he ran–ran from the questions, the fear, and the expectations that weighed so heavily on him.
"Tristan! Hold on!" Latia called out from behind, but he couldn't turn back. He couldn't face her, or anyone.
Unknown to anyone in the room, the smirk on Mephisto's lips went unseen, hidden in the shadows as he observed Tristan's unraveling. His eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction, the shift in Tristan's demeanor was amusing to his eyes. Mephisto had always been one to enjoy a well-played game, and the boy's internal struggle was a perfect piece of entertainment.
"The offer still stands!" He said amusedly. He didn't need to intervene, not yet–everything was falling into place just as he had foreseen.
He ran blindly, the echo of his own footsteps drowned by the frantic thudding of his heart in his ears. The hallway stretched out before him, a blur of indistinct shapes, as if the world itself had lost its meaning. All that mattered was escaping the suffocating feel inside, the chaos threatening to tear him apart.
The air outside hit him like a cold slap as he stumbled into the empty gardens of Astaroth Castle, still running without thought, his body moving on instinct alone. He wasn't sure where he was going, or if he even had a destination in mind. He just needed to get away.
But in his frantic state, he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings.
Before he could react, he collided with something–or rather, someone. The impact knocked him backward, and for a moment, he flailed to regain his balance. His vision blurred, his breath erratic, and he barely had time to process what had happened before he found himself staring up at the figure.
Sairaorg Bael.
Tristan's heart skipped a beat, and for a brief moment, everything seemed to freeze. The Bael heir was standing there, looking down at him with an expression that was somewhere between concern and amusement. His broad frame and imposing presence seemed to dwarf Tristan.
"Watch where you're going, Tristan." Sairaorg said, his voice firm but teasing.
Tristan, still shaken from his earlier panic, pushed himself to his feet and rubbed his head. "Sorry..." He muttered, his tone strained.
Noticing the mood of the blonde-haired boy, Sairaorg's eyes gleamed with determination, and he stepped forward with a confident grin. "Then let me cheer you up!" he said, cracking his knuckles as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Tristan felt his frustration bubbling over. "I'm not in the mood, Sairaorg." he snapped, his voice sharp. His chest still tightened from the earlier rush, his mind scrambled with thoughts, and the last thing he wanted to do was to spar with anyone.
Sairaorg, unfazed, gave him an amused look. "Doesn't matter." his grin widening.
Before Tristan could protest, Sairaorg closed the distance between them and struck. It was fast, almost too fast for Tristan to react, but his body moved instinctively, and he dodged the punch just in time.
This wasn't the time, he kept telling himself. However, Sairaorg wasn't giving him a choice.
Tristan gritted his teeth. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to do this. But the pressure, the rush of emotion inside him, the accusation that stated he was holding back, it was too much to ignore. He clenched his fists, and magic began to pulse at his fingertips without thought.
"I'm warning you, Sairaorg. I'm really not in the mood." Tristan growled, his eyes narrowing.
But as usual, Sairaorg wasn't listening. He charged again, a powerful blow aimed straight for Tristan's head.
"You're mine!" Sairaorg yelled, his grin widening as he saw his target within reach.
Yet, it never came.
Sairaorg was baffled. A second ago he was aiming his fist toward the blonde's head. Yet, here he was. His body caught by the thick branches of trees that erupted from the ground, twisting around his arms and legs, trapping him in place. The branches were alive with magical energy, wrapping him tightly, binding him like a prey caught in a hunter's snare.
Sairaorg struggled, trying to break free, but the more he moved, the tighter the branches seemed to grow. His usual strength, his physical power, had no effect on magic surrounding him.
"What the–?" Sairaorg growled, his eyes wide with surprise.
Before he could finish, Tristan raised his hand, and in an instant, countless wooden spears shot from the trees that surrounded them. They rose high into the air, glimmering in the dim light like jagged weapons of nature itself, aimed directly at Sairaorg.
Tristan stood, his breath steady despite the frantic emotions still rushing through him. The trees' branches continued to hold Sairaorg in place, and with a flick of Tristan's wrist, the spears hovered at his command, poised and ready to strike.
'Is this what happened? When I fought with the intent to kill?' He asked himself.
The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine as the surge of magic pulsed through his veins. The power had always been there, but it had never felt so… raw, so uncontrollable
For a long moment, the air around them seemed to freeze. The weight of the magic, the sharp tips of the wooden spears, and the suffocating silence pressed on Tristan's chest like a vice.
Suddenly, the stillness was broken by a voice–commanding yet calm.
"Tristan, that's enough."
Tristan's head snapped to the side, and his focus faltered just long enough for the wooden spears to lower slightly, though still poised at Sairaorg's chest. A figure appeared, stepping from the shadows at the edge, his presence unmistakable.
The Crimson Devil.
Sirzechs Lucifer.
The Crimson Devil, one of the strongest beings in the Underworld stood before him, his hands casually tucked into his pockets as he observed the scene with an amused, yet slightly disapproving expression. His crimson eyes flicked to Sairaorg, who was still bound by the branches, and then back to Tristan.
"I believe that's a bit much for a spar, don't you think?" Sirzechs said with a small grin, his tone light, as though they were simply discussing the weather.
"Sairaorg is tough, but I don't think he's quite ready for a full-on assassination attempt." He continued.
Tristan's heart skipped a beat at the sound of Sirzechs' voice. His magic wavered, and the branches holding Sairaorg loosened, though the spears remained suspended in the air. Tristan's breath still came in short bursts, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but he lowered his hand slightly, releasing the tension in his magic.
"He attacked me first and I wasn't trying to–" Tristan started, but Sirzechs raised a hand, cutting him off.
"I know you weren't," Sirzechs said, his smile softening as he approached. "You have the power, Tristan. That's obvious, but you need to have control over your magic. Otherwise, it would consume you."
Tristan opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a sudden flash of light enveloped them both, and before he even had time to react, everything around him changed.
The world around him shifted in an instant, as though the very fabric of space and time had bent. His surroundings blurred into a dizzying swirl of colors, and a moment later, everything settled. The air was thick with a powerful, almost otherworldly presence.
Tristan blinked, trying to focus, and realized they were no longer standing in the Astaroth garden where the spar had been taking place.
Instead, they stood in a desolate space–empty, vast, and oppressive. The ground beneath them was cracked and barren, like it had been long abandoned. No vegetation, no trees, no signs of life anywhere. The sky above was a dull, sickly gray, as if the very atmosphere was suffocating, trapping the energy in place. The air felt heavy, pressing down on him as if the space itself was filled with a deep, gnawing silence.
There were no distant sounds of birds or rustling leaves, no breeze, only the eerie hum of an energy Tristan could't identify. The only movement came from the occasional flicker of lightning that sparked on the horizon, illuminating the barren landscape in flashes of crimson red. It was like standing at the edge of a forgotten world.
Tristan's stomach tightened as his gaze swept across the emptiness. "Where… are we?"
"This is my domain," Sirzechs said, his voice oddly calm, though it was impossible to ignore the weight of the space around them. He didn't seem affected by it at all, his demeanor just as composed as ever. "I brought you here because it's the perfect environment. No distractions, no outside forces. Just you and me."
Tristan's mind raced, trying to grasp the significance of this place.
"What are we going to do here?" Tristan asked, his voice uncertain.
"Well, of course, we're going to spar!" The crimson-haired devil replied cheerfully, his tone as lighthearted as ever.
Before Tristan could even react, Sirzechs moved. The air around them seemed to crackle with energy, and in an instant, Sirzechs closed the distance between them with terrifying speed. The ground beneath them seemed to tremble as he lunged forward, his fist aimed directly at Tristan's chest, a blow that carried the power of destruction.
Tristan barely had time to react, his heart pounding as the power in Sirzechs' strike shook the air. The magic, the sheer force of it, felt overwhelming. Luckily, his reflexes kicked in just as Sirzechs' fist was inches from his chest.
The descendant of Merlin sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the impact, but the sheer speed and power behind Sirzechs' attack left him momentarily stunned. Sirzechs' fist, coated with the Bael trademark, collided with the ground, creating a huge crater and causing a shockwave that sent dust and debris flying into the air.
"Did you think I was going to wait for you to be ready?" Sirzechs said, his voice filled with amusement, even as he effortlessly spun and readied himself for the next attack.
Tristan's mind scrambled to process the sudden shift in the fight. His body moved instinctively, trying to keep up with the Crimson Satan's overwhelming speed.
'He's too fast. Too strong' Tristan thought, his breath coming in shallow bursts.
Sirzechs launched another strike, closing the gap between them in the blink of an eye. His palm surged with magic, aimed directly at Tristan.
However, this time, Tristan didn't retreat.
He raised his hand, and the ground beneath them responded to his will.
Thick roots and branches erupted from the cracked earth, spiraling upward to intercept the attack. The collision sent a burst of magical energy rippling outward, the force of which made the ground quake. The roots absorbed much of Sirzechs' Power of Destruction, though several turned into dust due the sheer pressure of the attack.
"Oh?" Sirzechs said, a grin spreading across his face. "Now we're getting somewhere! Fight with the intent to kill me, Tristan. If you can't, then you have no hope of surviving!"
Tristan didn't respond, his focus narrowing as he pushed his magic further. The roots shifted, morphing into long, jagged spears that shot towards Sirzechs with blinding speed. Each spear glimmered with pinkish-hue aura, the air around them vibrating as they streaked through the desolate space.
Sirzechs' eyes flickered with interest as the attack approached, the sheer force behind the spears a testament to Tristan's potential.
The Crimson Satan didn't flinch.
He raised his hand casually, his palm glowing with a deep crimson light that radiated power.
The first spear reached him, its tip aimed directly at his head. With a single motion, Sirzechs waved his hand, and the spear disintegrated in mid-air, its wooden fragments crumbling into harmless dust. The second and third spears followed immediately, but Sirzechs was already in motion. He stepped forward, the air around him distorting as a surge of magical energy pulsed outward.
The remaining spears shattered as they collided with the invisible barrier of power emanating from Sirzechs. The shards disintegrated into sparks of energy, scattering harmlessly into the barren ground. The overwhelming pressure of Sirzechs' magic rippled through the air, forcing Tristan to take a step back.
"Is that all, boy?" Sirzechs asked mockingly. His hand glowed brighter, the air around him shimmering as he effortlessly dispersed the last remnants of Tristan's attack.
"In your dreams, clown. I'm just getting started." Tristan replied, his voice tense but tinged with playful mockery.
Tristan raised his hands again, magic crackling around him like lightning. The ground beneath him quaked as more roots erupted, twisting and turning to form another barrage of spears, sharper and more refined than before.
Sirzechs watched with amusement as Tristan unleashed the new attack. This time, the spears moved faster, their tips glowing with concentrated energy. They converged on Sirzechs from multiple directions, their paths unpredictable, their speed nearly blinding.
"Impressive," Sirzechs admitted, his tone still calm. But as the spears closed in, he unleashed his own power.
With a flick of his wrist, another Power of Destruction pulse exploded outward, radiating from his body like a shockwave. The air trembled with its force, and the spears disintegrated on contact, reduced to nothing more than faint traces of magic in the air.
Sirzechs tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes narrowing as he observed Tristan. His tone shifted, calm but probing, cutting through the desolated area like a blade.
"It's true then…" He said, his voice carrying a hint of understanding. "You've never fought this fiercely when sparring with Latia or Sairaorg. You've been holding back against them."
Tristan froze for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. His magic faltered slightly, the roots at his feet trembling as his focus wavered. "I-I wasn't…" he began, yet Sirzechs' gaze stopped him.
"You were," Sirzechs interrupted, stepping forward slowly. "It's not a criticism, Tristan. It's who you are–someone who's afraid of what might happen if you go all out. Afraid of losing control, of hurting the people you care about. But do you really think that fear will help you?"
Tristan's fists clenched, the weight of Sirzechs' words pressing against his chest. He didn't want to admit it, but deep down, he knew it was true. He had always held back, choosing restraint over risk, afraid of what his power might do if he let it loose.
Sirzechs stopped a few steps away, his expression softening, though his voice remained firm.
"You're not sparring with Latia or my cousin, right now. This isn't about protecting anyone's feelings or holding back for their sake. Right now, you're fighting me. And, if you are still pulling your punches, then you will die." he finished seriously.
Tristan's eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and apprehension flashing across his face.
"Geez, don't hesitate," Sirzechs said, a rare playfulness slipping into his voice, though his crimson eyes gleamed with sharp focus."I'm not Sairaorg, who thrives on brute strength. I'm not Latia, who fights with accurate precision. I'm someone who can withstand the full force of your power without breaking a sweat."
He took a step forward, the air around him shimmering with the raw intensity of his magic. His smile widened, but there was something deeper in it–something powerful, unyielding.
"I am the strongest devil in the world," Sirzechs continued, his tone soft but unwavering. The sheer authority behind his words sent a ripple through the desolate space, the energy of his presence alone enough to make the ground tremble faintly.
"I am Sirzechs Lucifer."
For a brief moment, his aura flared, a radiant crimson light that seemed to eclipse everything around him. The desolate landscape brightened as the energy poured from his body, not destructive, but impossibly overwhelming. It was a reminder of the power he carried–a power that could bend reality itself.
But then, as quickly as it had flared, his aura softened, and Sirzechs gave a light chuckle, the warmth returning to his voice. "But titles and strength aside, right now, I'm just your opponent. Someone who's here to push you to your limits and beyond. So stop holding back, Tristan. Show me what the Descendant of Merlin can really do."
There was no arrogance in his words, only confidence.
A faint grin tugged at Tristan's lips as he straightened, the tension in his body giving way to something more determined. "Alright, you Siscon. You asked for it."
Tristan tightened his grip on magic, reaching deeper, and with a sharp breath, the ground around them responded.
A cluster of vibrant flowers erupted from the barren earth, their petals shimmering with an unnatural luminescence. The air around them grew heavy with a sweet, almost intoxicating scent as the flowers bloomed fully.
Sirzechs raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What's this?" he asked, his tone more curious than cautious.
The flowers began to release a thick, golden pollen that swirled into the air like shimmering dust. As it spread, the weight of the sweet fragrance grew stronger, the pollen forming a dense cloud that began to creep forward Sirzechs.
Sirzechs narrowed his eyes and moved to step back, but the pollen was quicker, surrounding him in a glittering haze. The moment it touched his skin, he felt a faint prickle–a warning of its poisonous nature. His movements slowed slightly, the magic in the pollen working to sap his strength and dull his reflexes.
"Clever," Sirzechs said, his grin widening despite the subtle effect taking hold. "But let's see how long you can maintain this."
Tristan didn't reply. Instead, he shifted his focus again, his magic taking on a new form.
From the same patch of flowers, a second bloom erupted–this time, a field of translucent, glowing blossoms. The petals of these flowers shimmered faintly, creating an almost ethereal light that bathed the battlefield in an otherworldly glow.
Sirzechs tilted his head, his senses sharp. "Illusions, huh?" he murmured.
The flowers began to move, growing taller and intertwining, creating a maze-like structure around the red-haired devil. Each step Sirzechs took seemed to shift the maze, the glowing petals refracting light in ways that made it impossible to discern reality from illusion.
"Interesting," Sirzechs said, his voice tinged with admiration. "Combining misdirection with direct offense."
Inside the shifting maze, Sirzechs noticed faint silhouettes of Tristan moving between the flowers, each one appearing and disappearing in an instant. It was impossible to tell which one was real.
Tristan's voice echoed from somewhere within the maze, calm and steady. "This isn't about overwhelming you anymore, It's about making you question every move."
Sirzechs smirked, his eyes scanning the illusions as he prepared his next move. "Not bad, Tristan. But illusion magic is only as good as the mind controlling it. Let's see if you can keep up."
He raised his hand, and a ripple of crimson energy radiated outward, the pulse strong enough to disrupt the shifting maze for a moment. But as the petals scattered, they reformed just as quickly, the illusion adapting and shifting with every pulse Sirzechs sent.
Tristan's heart pounded as he focused on maintaining the magic. The poisonous pollen still swirled through the air, its effect subtle but persistent, while the illusory maze continued to shift and confuse. For the first time in the spar, he felt like he had the upper hand, even if only for a moment.
But deep down, he knew Sirzechs wasn't truly trying yet. That thought alone kept him on edge, his determination burning brighter.
So, he had to end this now.
Even if there's only one percent chance that he could hurt the Crimson Devil, he'll take it.
Taking a deep breath, Tristan concentrated, his magic surge on as he pushed. He could feel it–the magic that had always been just beneath the surface. It pulsed, growing stronger with each beat of his heart, demanding to be unleashed.
A deep, resonating hum filled the air as a dark energy swirled around him, and his eyes glowed with a crimson intensity. The very earth beneath his feet seemed to tremble as the destructive force took root.
"Now…" Tristan whispered, feeling the magic expand beyond his control.
The air around him shimmered with energy, bending reality itself. This wasn't just magic manipulation–it was altering the very laws of physics, defying logic, making what was thought impossible, possible.
The earth beneath him seemed to pulse with each beat of his heart, responding to his will. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned the grooves of roots, twisting and shifting as they grew rapidly from the ground.
The roots bent and morphed, their fibers becoming thick and strong, their tips sharpening into jagged, deadly spears, as if nature itself were re-forging the very laws of reality at his command.
The spears shot towards Sirzechs with a speed and force that defied the laws of nature.
Sirzechs saw the oncoming spears and immediately began to react, his body moving with effortless precision. He raised his hand, summoning a shield of crimson energy, the power of the Bael family rippling around him. His magic flared brightly, forming a wall of protection against the barrage of spears.
But as he shifted his stance, preparing to block the attack, something unusual happened.
The very air around him seemed to shift. The spears moved erratically. It was as if the spears knew his next move before he even made it.
Sirzechs faltered, his confidence momentarily shaken. For a mere boy, to push him this far… it was almost impossible. Yet, it happened.
As he stepped to the side, attempting to avoid a spear that was coming from an unexpected angle, his foot slipped on the cracked ground. His magic flickered for a split second, his balance faltering.
Before he could recover, the spear aimed directly at his side–his blind spot–pierced through his shield and grazed his side. The force of the impact sent him crashing to the ground, his crimson aura dimming momentarily as he lost his footing. He tumbled backward, his legs slipping on the uneven earth as he fell onto one knee.
For the first time, Sirzechs was on the ground.
He looked up at Tristan, a brief flash of surprise in his usually composed eyes. However, before he could regain his stance, he noticed something strange.
Tristan, still standing, swayed on his feet. His eyes, once fierce and determined, now glazed over, and his breathing was shallow and unsteady.
It seems that the toll of the spar had drained him far more than he had anticipated.
Tristan's body swayed once more, his magic flickering weakly as it fought against the exhaustion consuming him. His legs buckled beneath him, and with one final, labored breath, he collapsed to the ground.
The last thing Tristan saw before losing consciousness was Sirzechs, who was still recovering from the blow, his eyes watching with a mixture of awe and concern. The impact of the fight had taken its toll. Tristan's mind went black, the surge of magic and exhaustion pulling him into unconsciousness.
On the desolate outskirts of the battlefield, hidden behind a barrier of enchantments so intricate even most proficient mages would struggle to notice them, three figures stood in silence.
Mephisto lounged against a jagged outcrop, his posture replaced but his heterochromic eyes alight with interest. Beside him, Ajuka Beelzebub stood with his arms crossed, his sharp green eyes fixed intently on the sparring ground.
A few steps away, Grayfia Lucifuge, the ever-composed maid of Sirzechs Lucifer, observed the scene with her usual calm, though there was a faint tension in her silver gaze.
"Now this," Mephisto said, breaking the silence with a low chuckle, "is a show worth watching. The boy's putting on quite the performance, wouldn't you agree?"
Ajuka didn't answer immediately, his expression as unreadable as ever. But his silence carried weight. His gaze lingered on the flickering magic surrounding Tristan.
"Telos Karma…" Ajuka finally said, his voice low and thoughtful.
"He managed to do what no one else has done in centuries. He made Sirzechs Lucifer slip, falter, fall. Even manage to harm the Crimson Devil. A mere boy. He bent reality itself." Mephisto mused.
"That shouldn't have been possible," Grayfia said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Even if he's the descendant of the flower mage, it is still impossible to harm Sirzechs."
Mephisto shrugged, his grin unfaltering. "And that, my dear Grayfia, is precisely what makes this so fascinating. The boy made the impossible possible. Can you imagine what he could achieve with proper guidance? That's why I'm so interested in taking him to the Grauzauberer. He could be a phenomenal rival for Little Lavinia and Georg."
Mephisto's words lingered in the air, heavy with intrigue and veiled intent.
Grayfia's grip tightened around her arm, her usual composure cracking ever so slightly. "You speak as though this is a game, Mephisto. But Sirzechs' power is no trivial matter. If that boy managed to harm him, it means something has shifted–a force to be reckoned with. You should not meddle."
Mephisto chuckled, the sound low and resonant. "Oh, Grayfia, meddling is the only thing that keeps this existence interesting. Besides, if a force so remarkable has emerged, isn't it our duty to understand it? To shape it, perhaps? Leaving such power would be a great sin, even for us devils."
Before Grayfia could respond, the atmosphere grew heavy, the air charged with overwhelming energy. A deep, crimson light began to coalesce, pulsating like a heartbeat. The sheer weight of the presence was enough to silence both of them.
The crimson light took form, and there stood Sirzechs Lucifer, his regal crimson aura shimmering like a living flame. Draped over his shoulder, limp and unconscious, was the boy in question–Tristan.
Grayfia's breath caught, her silver eyes widening, "Sirzechs…"
Mephisto's grin faltered for the first time, replaced by a glimmer of genuine curiosity. "Well, well. You've certainly made an entrance."
Sirzechs lowered Tristan carefully onto a nearby couch, his movements uncharacteristically deliberate. When he finally straightened, his eyes met Grayfia. In them, there was no anger–only a calm intensity that sent shivers through the area.
"Do you know what he did?" Sirzechs asked, his voice low but powerful, reverberating through the desolate lands.
Grayfia hesitated. "He… harmed you."
Sirzechs nodded slowly. "Yes. He did what no one else has managed in centuries, except for Ajuka, AHAHAHA. A mere boy stood against me, pushed me to falter, and even drew blood." His gaze shifted to Mephisto. "You've seen it too, haven't you?"
Mephisto tilted his head, his grin returning. "Oh, I've seen it. The birth of the Telos Karma wielder. And I must say, it's been quite some time since something, or someone, has intrigued me this much."
Sirzech stepped closer to Tristan, his expression softening as he looked at the boy. "He is…raw. His potential is boundless…"
Grayfia's voice trembled, a rare crack in her usually stoic demeanor. "What will you do with him?"
Sirzechs turned to face her, his crimson aura flickering like a dying ember. "I will wait. I will wait for him to understand the power he wields and the consequences it brings. And when the time comes, I will decide."
With that, Sirzechs turned, his aura dimming slightly as he began to leave the premises. "Watch over him, Grayfia. Ensure he recovers. His journey is far from over."
As the crimson light of Sirzechs' departure faded, Mephisto leaned back against a nearby rock, his grin wider than ever. "Dibs, I'm taking him!"
With that, the Chairman of the Grauzauberer left. Leaving only Ajuka and Grayfia alone in Lucifer's Domain.
"You've stirred a tempest, Tristan" she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from his pale face. "But perhaps, within that storm, there's hope for something greater."
Above them, the night sky stretched endlessly, its stars distant and cold, as if they too were watching and waiting for what was to come.
So, Tristan is the wielder of Telos Karma :) He managed to harm Sirzechs, a very rare accpmplishment as a member of the supernatural world. We could see in this chapter that there a lot of doubts lingering in his heart, uncertainties, guilt, fear, and doubt exist in that fragile heart. So, I guess the best way to make him adapt is enrolling him to the Grauzauberer Academy.
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