Reina
Reina stared into the amber liquid swirling in her cup, her fingers tightening around the worn wood of the tavern table. The bitter scent of ale mixed with the thick, smoky air, clinging to her like the disappointment in her chest. She took a slow sip, the burn doing little to chase away the weight in her stomach. Not strong enough. Not skilled enough. The words echoed in her mind like a cruel spell, replaying the moment the captains passed her by, their gazes sliding off her like she was invisible.
Her throat tightened, and she set the cup down harder than intended. A few heads turned her way, but she ignored them. She let out a quiet breath, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. Outside, the night stretched dark and indifferent, just like the future ahead of her.
Asta. What a amazing guy.
He had walked into the exam with nothing but sheer determination and heart—and still, he had walked away with three offers. He had flipped the entire exam on its head, proving everyone wrong in the most spectacular way possible. She thought she could win her match. She had believed she was ready, that her magic and skills were enough. Back in Ashbrook Village, she had looked strong. The people there weren't real fighters—just farmers and merchants with a bit of magic, nothing more.
They looked good, but none of them were actually strong. And up until now, Reina had never faced someone who had truly trained, someone who had pushed themselves beyond casual practice. They had prepared for this moment their entire lives. The pressure, the intensity, the sheer difference in experience—it had all crashed down on her at once.
She hesitated. She second-guessed herself. And in that single moment of doubt, her opponent had taken full advantage.
A single mistake. That was all it took.
Reina stood firm, flames crackling in her palms, the heat licking at her fingertips. Across from her, a lanky man with sharp features and a twisted smirk exuded a sickly green aura. His toxic magic hissed and bubbled, eating away at the stone floor beneath his feet, the fumes alone making the air heavy.
"Seriously?" He scoffed. "A peasant like you really thought you had a shot? That's adorable."
Reina didn't respond. She kept her stance, fire burning brighter as she focused. She would prove herself.
The man chuckled, shaking his head.
"What, you think just anyone can become a Magic Knight? Let me guess—small village girl, big dreams? Thought you were special because you were the strongest in some backwater town?" He clicked his tongue. "You peasants never learn."
Her flames flickered.
"You know," he continued, his voice turning lazy yet cruel, "your father's waiting for you back home." His smirk widened as he took a slow step forward. "Probably wondering when you'll stop playing pretend and get back to farming like you were meant to." His words dripped with mockery. "Because that's all you are, right? A farmer. Your whole family—your whole bloodline—is meant for the fields." He spread his arms, as if the outcome had already been decided. "And here you are, chasing dreams that were never yours to begin with."
Reina's heart pounded.
Her father. Her siblings. The farm. The weight of expectation pressing down on her since childhood. She had always known people looked down on her. That her place in the world had already been decided before she was even born. But hearing it spoken out loud—hearing it spat at her like an undeniable truth—made her stomach twist.
Her magic wavered. The heat dimmed. The battlefield blurred. The crowd became distant. The captains' gazes, the match, the sickly green magic rushing toward her—everything collapsed into a haze.
Then—pain.
Her body slammed into the ground, her flames flickering out.
It was over.
"You look like you could use some company, fuh-hah!"
She barely lifted her head, her gaze drifting to the figure looming beside her. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in clothes that looked a little too fine for the dimly lit tavern. His brown hair was slicked back, but not perfectly—stray strands poked out, defying whatever effort he'd put into his appearance. She didn't recognize him. His posture screamed nobility—too relaxed, too sure of himself, like someone who had never known real failure.
Her fingers tightened around her cup.
"You good, fuh-hah?"
Reina exhaled slowly, her shoulders sinking. Was he actually worried?
It didn't matter.
"I'm not in the mood," she muttered, tipping her cup just enough to watch the liquid swirl, the dim candlelight catching in the ripples.
"Not recruited by any squad, fuh-hah?"
Her fingers tensed around the cup. The words struck deeper than she wanted to admit.
She could feel his gaze lingering, expectant, but she didn't look at him. Tavern chatter filled the air, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter—but here, in this moment, it all felt distant.
Reina inhaled slowly through her nose.
"What do you want?" Her voice came out quieter than intended, lacking its usual sharp edge.
Her shoulders tensed. Her pulse hammered in her ears.
Not recruited by any squad?
"If you came here to rub it in, just leave,"
Instead of smirking or laughing like she expected, the guy raised both hands, palms out, his body leaning back slightly like he was warding off an attack.
"Whoa, easy there, fuh-hah," he said. "I'm not here to mock you."
His grin wasn't as wide now. His usual self-assurance dulled at the edges. He drummed his fingers against the wooden table, gaze gazing downward before settling on his own half-finished drink.
"I was in the same spot last year. Stood there like an idiot while the captains looked right past me." He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I really thought I had it in the bag, fuh-hah. Thought I'd show up, flex a little, and walk away with a squad." His fingers curled into a loose fist against the table. "Turns out, I wasn't as great as I hyped myself up to be."
Reina's anger wavered, just for a second. She hadn't expected that.
Sekke tilted his head back, eyes fixed on the rafters as if the words were etched into the wood. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the table—quick, uneven beats, like someone stalling for time.
"After that, I figured—why not fake it, fuh-hah?" He let out a dry laugh, tipping his chair onto its back legs. "If I act like I'm great, maybe people will believe it. So I started calling myself a genius magic knight, told everyone I was just taking a well-earned vacation before gracing my squad with my presence." He gestured lazily around the dimly lit tavern, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across his face. "That's why I'm still here, fuh-hah. Living the dream."
Reina's brows knit together. Something about the way he spoke—it wasn't self-pity, but it wasn't pride either. Like he was walking a tightrope between laughing at himself and hoping someone else would.
"But you were accepted," she muttered, watching him closely. "So why—"
"I wasn't."
The chair's front legs thudded against the floor as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. His grin was gone, replaced by something harder to read. His thumb ran absently over a deep scratch in the wood, tracing the uneven groove.
"No squad wanted me," he said, voice quieter now. "Not one."
Reina stared.
Sekke exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before resting his chin on his palm.
"I thought my magic was foolproof, fuh-hah," he continued, tapping his fingers against his cheek. "My indestructible defense—no one could touch me. Or at least, that's what I told myself." His fingers stilled, curling slightly. "Then some guy in an alleyway proved me wrong."
Reina caught the way his jaw flexed, the way his shoulders stiffened before he forced them loose again, like he was trying to shrug off the memory.
"Didn't even happen in the exam," he muttered, shaking his head. "Just some fight afterward. Thought I'd show off, put him in his place. Instead, he cracked right through my magic like it was nothing."
His lips pressed into a thin line before curling back into a familiar smirk—only this time, it looked more like armor than arrogance.
"Turns out, fuh-hah," he said, voice light but eyes dark, "I wasn't as untouchable as I thought."
"But it didn't matter, fuh-hah," he said, stretching his legs out under the table. "I accepted it. Embraced it, even. That same guy—the one who shattered my so-called indestructible defense—ended up sponsoring me."
Reina's brows furrowed. "Sponsored you?"
Sekke shrugged. "Yeah. Turns out, I'm a better creative writer than a Magic Knight. So, I went with it."
He pulled out a small, well-worn book and slid it across the table toward her. Reina blinked, then cautiously picked it up. Her fingers ran over the embossed cover, the bold, intricate lettering gleaming under the dim tavern lights.
Her breath caught in her throat.
No way.
Leveling Demon in the Abyss.
Her hands tightened around the book, eyes darting back to the person's face, searching for any sign that he was joking.
He wasn't.
"You're telling me you wrote this?"
He leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Fuh-hah. Didn't expect that, did you?"
Reina's mind reeled. Leveling Demon in the Abyss wasn't just some book. It was a phenomenon. A massive hit among the younger generation, its protagonist—a nobody who rose from the bottom to defeat overwhelming odds—had inspired countless aspiring mages across the kingdom.
And he wrote it?
She stared at him, speechless.
Her fingers tensed.
Slowly, she flipped it open and skimmed the synopsis:
"Born without talent. Destined for nothing. Yet, when the world cast him aside, he carved his own legend—one of blood, grit, and endless defiance. From the depths of the abyss, a demon rises, leveling beyond all limits…"
Her breath hitched.
No way.
Her grip on the book tightened as she looked up at him, her expression caught between shock and disbelief.
"You're telling me you wrote this?"
And the person sitting in front of her—the guy who had just admitted to faking his own reputation—was the one who wrote it?
She had no words.
Her throat felt dry. "A-Are you—" she swallowed, barely managing to get the words out, "Sekke Bronzazza?"
The name felt foreign on her tongue, like it didn't belong to the smirking, laid-back guy sitting across from her. Sekke chuckled, propping his elbow on the table and resting his cheek against his palm. His golden eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Fuh-hah," he said with a lazy grin. "The one and only."
She stared deeply in his eyes.
"You know," he started, his voice quieter now, "I didn't always want to be some big-shot writer, fuh-hah."
He stretched his arms behind his head, eyes drifting toward the tavern's ceiling as if searching for a memory hidden in the beams.
"When I was younger, I wanted to be a Magic Knight. Not just any Magic Knight, but the best. And it was all because of one guy—Langris."
Reina blinked. "Langris Vaude?"
Sekke nodded. "Yeah. The Clover Champion. The prodigy. The guy who's been undefeated in one-on-one combat since he was born. They say he's fought in hundreds of skirmishes—terrorists, criminals, rogue mages, even Diamond Kingdom soldiers in the war. And he never lost. Not once."
Reina swallowed. She'd heard the stories. Everyone had.
Sekke leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. His voice dropped slightly, as if revealing something sacred. "At eighteen, he became second-in-command of the strongest squad in the kingdom. Vice-Captain of the Golden Dawn."
Reina's breath hitched. Eighteen. That was barely older than her.
"They say his magic power was stronger than Julius Novachrono's at birth," Sekke continued, his eyes distant. "He was born different. Destined for greatness from the start."
Sekke let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "When I was a kid, I thought, That's what I want to be. That's how I'm gonna live. I figured if I trained hard enough, got strong enough, maybe I'd be like him. Maybe I'd be something special."
He let the words settle, running a hand through his hair before lowering his gaze back to her. The cocky grin was still there, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"But as I got older, I realized something, fuh-hah." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Being that special? It's rare. Guys like Langris? They're born different. And no amount of training was gonna make me him."
Reina stayed quiet, watching him closely.
"But I tried. I'm just not really happy being a Magic Knight," he said, voice steady, "if you really want to be a Magic Knight, then go for it, fuh-hah. Train harder, push yourself, and try again next year. But if that's not what you want—if you'd rather stay here, travel, start a business, hell, do anything else—then go for that instead."
Reina stiffened, gripping the book tighter.
Sekke tapped his knuckles against the table. "What I'm saying is, don't become something just because other people told you to. You keep chasing what they want, and you'll wake up one day realizing you never actually lived for yourself." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "And trust me, that's a damn miserable way to live, fuh-hah."
His gaze flickered to the tavern's dim lights, his voice dropping slightly. "You'll end up wasting years trying to prove something to people who won't even remember your name in a decade. And when it's too late, you'll look back and wonder what could've been." He exhaled through his nose, then looked back at her. "You really wanna die filled with regrets?"
Reina swallowed.
The weight of his words pressed against her chest, heavier than she expected.
"So… what are you saying?" she asked, her voice quieter now. "That I should just quit? Give up?"
Sekke sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "No, fuh-hah. I'm saying the opposite." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I'm saying that if being a Magic Knight is really what you want, then fight for it. Train harder, get stronger, and prove everyone wrong next year. But if you're only doing it because someone else expects you to—then what's the point?"
Reina bit her lip, gripping the book in her hands.
She exhaled sharply, then muttered, "That's easy for you to say." Her voice was laced with frustration, but there was something vulnerable underneath. "You had the luxury to choose another path. But me?" She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "I don't have that kind of freedom. My family's counting on me. My father… he expects me and my siblings to take over the farm. He always told us that dreaming beyond that was just—" she swallowed, voice wavering, "wasting time."
Sekke tilted his head, watching her closely.
"And yet, you still tried to become a Magic Knight, fuh-hah," he pointed out. "If you really believed all that, you wouldn't have even shown up to the exam."
Reina opened her mouth to argue but stopped.
He wasn't wrong.
She had defied her father's expectations by coming here in the first place. By standing in that exam arena, even if she had failed, she had tried.
She looked away, her grip tightening on the book. "…I just don't know what to do now," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Then figure it out," he said simply, his voice steady but firm.
Reina blinked, startled by the bluntness.
Sekke leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. "You don't have to have all the answers right now, fuh-hah. No one does. But what you do have to do is stop sitting in the dark, waiting for someone else to decide your life for you."
He let the words settle before continuing, his golden eyes locking onto hers. "If you're scared, fine. If you feel lost, fine. But don't use that as an excuse to stay stuck. You either fight for what you want, or you let life push you around and die wondering what could've been. That's it."
Reina felt her chest tighten.
Sekke stood up, sliding his hands into his pockets. "At the end of the day, you only get one shot at this whole 'life' thing, fuh-hah. So stop waiting for permission to live it."
With that, he turned, walking toward the tavern's exit without looking back. Then, a face surfaced in her thoughts—mismatched eyes, a delicate yet smug expression, as if he already knew he was better than everyone else.
That freak.
She had never fought him, never even come close. But she had watched. He had dominated every single trial in the exam, cutting through every challenge like it was nothing. While others struggled, while she faltered under the pressure, he had thrived. If anyone was guaranteed a future as a Magic Knight, it was him and the Four Leaf Clover User.
Her green eyes gleamed.
Maybe… maybe if she found him, if she asked for his advice. Maybe she could still become a Magic Knight.
Langris Vaude
Aquamarine eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the golden glow of a chandelier overhead. The air was thick with lavender and something richer, a noble's preferred incense. Silk sheets pooled around his waist as he shifted, but the movement sent a sharp jolt through his ribs. He stilled, his fingers curling instinctively against the fabric.
This wasn't his room.
His body felt heavy, like he had been carrying something far beyond his own weight. A dull ache stretched across his limbs, the kind that settled deep in the muscles after a battle fought past exhaustion.
A battle.
His brow furrowed, flashes of memory danced behind his eyes. The distorted space, the shattered trees, the hum of magic thick enough to make the air tremble. And at the center of it all—him. A shadow moving too fast. A figure that only sharpened with every attack. The blindfolded thief.
Langris exhaled, pushing himself upright. His hands pressed into the mattress, knuckles turning white from the effort. His heart pounded against his ribs, his body tensing as if expecting another strike at any moment.
Had it been real?
His fingers twitched, recalling the feel of spatial magic tearing through the air, distorting everything in its path. The weight of his mana had been suffocating—yet no matter how precise, how relentless his attacks were, the thief had only grown faster. Sharper. With each clash, he adapted, moving as if the fight itself was sculpting him into something deadlier.
Langris gritted his teeth.
Then—nothing. A void where the end of the fight should be.
He reached up, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair. His fingertips brushed against sweat-damp strands, a lingering heat still clinging to his skin.
"Of course, it's not a dream. I defeated you. I overcame your Spatial Magic."
The voice was smooth, almost unbothered, carrying none of the weight of the brutal clash that had torn through the forest.
Langris's breath came slow and shallow, his fingers twitching against the silk sheets. The weight of his body felt wrong—his muscles stiff, his ribs aching with every inhale. The scent of expensive incense clung to the air, the soft glow of candlelight casting long shadows across the room.
But it wasn't his room. His gaze snapped to the source of the voice.
There he stood—the blindfolded man.
Langris had never seen someone with such conflicting traits before. The man looked almost fragile at first glance—his facial structure fine, his skin unblemished, lips holding a natural curve that could be mistaken for softness. But the way he stood, the toned shape of his body beneath his cloak, the ease in his posture—this was no ordinary noble.
Langris's fingers clenched.
Beside him, another figure stood, just as composed—just as infuriating.
Salim Hapshass. This lowly rat.
His golden hair was slicked back with practiced precision, his robes untouched by dirt or strain. His arms crossed lazily over his chest, his expression carved into that insufferable smirk Langris had grown up loathing.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Salim mused, tilting his head. His voice carried that ever-present smugness, as if he were indulging in a private joke. "Not quite the position you're used to, is it?"
Langris's pulse thundered.
His shoulders tensed, the muscles in his arms coiling like springs. His breath was slow, controlled, but his fury was anything but. His fingers twisted into the sheets, the fabric straining under his grip.
Then, without thought—without hesitation—he moved.
Or at least, he tried.
The moment he attempted to lunge, fire lanced through his ribs, locking his body in place. A sharp, unforgiving pain shot through his limbs, seizing every muscle, leaving him stiff and powerless. His breath caught, his vision blurring at the edges for half a second.
But he refused to show it. His jaw clenched, the only sign of strain a flicker of tightness at the corner of his mouth.
The blindfolded man remained still, unreadable. Then—he tilted his head, just slightly.
"You shouldn't move too much," he said. His tone was calm, almost polite. "You're still recovering."
Langris's nails pressed into his palms. Salim chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. He didn't look at him. He didn't need to.
His pride burned. His fury simmered, white-hot. And yet—his body refused to move. For now, all he could do was seethe.
"What do you want?" His voice was cold. "Where am I? And who the hell are you?"
The blindfolded man didn't answer right away. Instead, a slow, amused chuckle left his lips, as if Langris had asked something trivial.
"Ghost."
Langris's brows knitted together. "Ghost?"
"That's what you may call me."
"As for where you are," Ghost continued, fingers drifting lazily along the carved wooden desk beside him, "this is my base. A mansion, to be exact. We're underground, beneath the Heart Kingdom's territory."
Langris stiffened. Underground? Beneath the Heart Kingdom?
"That's impossible,"
Ghost smirked.
"Is it?"
Langris opened his mouth to argue, but Ghost cut him off with an almost bored wave of his hand.
"My darling, Lolopechka doesn't know."
The casual dismissal sent a strange chill through Langris's spine.
Then, Ghost's smirk curved further, his tone taking on something mocking.
"The Queen of the Heart Kingdom is far too ill to notice anything, anyway."
Langris's fingers twitched against the sheets. His mind raced. Ill? What is he talking about?
"What do you mean by that?"
Ghost exhaled, as if the question no longer interested him.
"A secret," he murmured. Then, as he turned toward Langris once more, his lips curled into something just shy of a grin. "One I wouldn't waste on a noble dog of the Clover Kingdom."
Langris's hands clenched into fists. His fury burned beneath his skin, but his body—his damn body—refused to move.
"Let me ask you something," Ghost said, fingers idly tapping the armrest of his chair. "Who do you think is stronger—Clover Kingdom's Magic Knights or the Spirit Guardians of the Heart Kingdom?"
Langris scoffed. So that's what this is about? He had no interest in playing whatever game Ghost was setting up.
But before he could dismiss it entirely, a low chuckle came from the side.
"Come now, Vice Captain," he murmured, voice smooth and dripping with condescension. "You should answer when spoken to."
Langris barely had time to react before an invisible weight pressed onto his body. His breath hitched. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was deliberate—meant to push, to demand acknowledgment.
His jaw tightened. Damn him.
Salim's smirk deepened, watching him struggle.
"Salim."
Ghost's voice cut through the moment, calm yet firm.
The pressure vanished instantly.
Langris exhaled sharply, barely suppressing the tremor in his fingers. His glare snapped to Salim, but the noble only shrugged, feigning innocence. Bastard.
Ghost leaned forward once more, resting his chin against his knuckles.
"Now then, back to my question," he said, unfazed. "Think carefully before you answer."
Langris inhaled slowly, steadying himself. His body still ached from his earlier defeat, but his mind was sharpening. He wasn't about to be toyed with.
"The Magic Knights," he finally answered, his voice flat but resolute.
Ghost exhaled, almost disappointed.
"Wrong."
Langris's eyes narrowed.
Ghost leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming idly against the armrest. His delicate features betrayed no arrogance, only certainty.
"Clover Kingdom's Magic Knights are powerful, but true strength? It lies with only a handful of them." He raised a single hand and ticked off the names one by one. "Julius Novachrono. Yami Sukehiro. Mereoleona Vermillion. They are the real power of your kingdom. The rest?" He flicked his fingers dismissively. "Fodder. Semi Fodder and Cannon Fodder."
Langris bristled.
"That's absurd—"
"Is it?" Ghost's voice was patient, almost amused. "Tell me, how many Magic Knights in your kingdom could stand against a real monster? Not a skirmish. Not a noble's duel."
Langris clenched his fists, but Ghost wasn't done.
"You can count them on one hand," he continued, his voice never rising, never wavering. "Meanwhile, the Spirit Guardians are trained for that. They don't rely on a broken system that hands status to those born lucky. They refine their magic, their instincts, their purpose."
Langris hated the way his words made sense. He wanted to dismiss them as nonsense, as arrogance—but Ghost's tone held no desperation to prove a point. It was just cold, precise analysis.
Then Ghost tilted his head slightly, as if considering something.
"I'd mention William Vangeance, but…" A smirk touched his lips. "He's a liability at this point, isn't he?"
Langris stiffened.
"Captain Vangeance is strong," he said, his voice dangerously low.
"Undoubtedly," Ghost agreed. "But strength alone doesn't make someone useful. His existence invites more problems than it solves."
Langris's chest tightened.
"You know I'm right," Ghost continued smoothly. "You're smart, Langris. You see weaknesses, no matter how much you wish you didn't."
"I've been fighting for years. I've faced rogue mages, terrorists, and entire battalions from the Diamond Kingdom. I know how strong the Magic Knights are—"
Ghost let out a slow, mocking chuckle, shaking his head as if Langris had just said the most pitiful thing he'd ever heard.
"Oh, that's rich," he drawled, amusement dripping from every word. "So you've been fighting for years? Faced terrorists, rogue mages, even the Diamond Kingdom? Is that supposed to impress me?"
Langris gritted his teeth, but Ghost wasn't finished.
"Tell me, Vice Captain—" he practically spat the title out. "If you're so experienced, so aware of how strong the Magic Knights are… then why are you the one lying in bed, broken and humiliated, while I'm sitting here, completely fine?"
Langris's breath hitched, his hands curling into fists.
"Ohhh, don't get all stiff on me now," Ghost cooed, tilting his head in mock sympathy. "I'm just pointing out the obvious. You keep throwing around this 'I've been fighting for years' nonsense like it means anything—like it helped you. But the second you stepped out of your little noble-boy bubble and fought someone who actually evolves in battle?" His smirk widened. "You crumbled. Just like that."
Langris's body tensed.
"Face it," Ghost continued, voice practically dripping with amusement. "You lost because you rely on a tired formula. You think your spatial magic makes you untouchable, but it's so boring. Same tricks, same patterns, same fragile little ego thinking it's invincible."
Langris's aura flared violently, but Ghost only laughed.
"Oh? Struck a nerve?" he teased, resting his chin lazily on his hand. "Relax, I'm just telling you what everyone's too polite to say. You're predictable, Langris. Stale. And that's why you lost. It's not because I'm stronger—though, obviously, I am—but because I actually learn when I fight. I humble myself. Meanwhile, you?" He scoffed. "You rely on the same old tricks and expect the world to keep bowing at your feet."
Langris's breathing was heavy now, his body trembling—not just from anger, but from the ugly truth buried within Ghost's words.
Ghost grinned, pleased. "Now, are you going to sit there sulking, or are you finally going to accept that you're not nearly as untouchable as you thought?"
Langris's jaw tightened, his aquamarine eyes burning with frustration. He forced himself to take a breath, to keep his composure.
"Enough games," he snapped. "What the hell are you trying to prove?"
Ghost chuckled—low and amused, like he had been waiting for that question. He stretched his arms behind his head, lounging back as if this entire conversation was just entertainment to him.
"Prove?" he echoed, tilting his head. "Oh, Langris… I don't need to prove anything. I already know what you are."
Langris stiffened.
"Tell me," Ghost continued, his voice light, almost conversational, but laced with something sharper. "What do you think people admire about your dear older brother, Finral?"
Langris flinched, his hands curling into the sheets beneath him.
"It's not his magic," Ghost said, answering his own question. "It's him. His kindness. His loyalty. The way he treats people, the way he cares for them. That's why he's liked. That's why he's respected."
His smirk widened. "And you? You're only loved for your magic. The sheer amount of it. That's it. Nothing else."
Langris's breath hitched, his fingers trembling.
"Deep down, you've always known that, haven't you?" Ghost continued, eyes gleaming beneath his blindfold. "That if you weren't born with overwhelming power, you'd just be another noble brat, forgotten and ignored. That's why you push yourself so hard. That's why you act like you have something to prove. But it's all so shallow, isn't it?"
Ghost let out a sigh, shaking his head. "No wonder you're drowning in an inferiority complex."
Langris felt something ugly coil in his chest—rage, shame, something bitter and twisting that he refused to name. His entire life, his magic had defined him. Praised, feared, envied—yet never truly seen.
Ghost leaned in slightly, his smirk cruel. "And that's why losing to someone like me—someone with no noble blood, no grand title—burns so much, doesn't it? Lost to a rat. To a thief."
Langris's breath came heavy, his entire body rigid with tension. His mind screamed at him to refute it, to deny every word Ghost had just said—but he couldn't. Because deep down, some part of him knew it was true. Ghost saw the flicker in his eyes and grinned. He had peeled back the layers, struck the nerve he wanted.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" Ghost murmured, tilting his head. "Realizing that everything you built your identity on is just… paper-thin."
Langris gritted his teeth. "Shut up."
"Oh, no, no, no." Ghost wagged a finger at him, his tone almost playful. "You don't get to shut me out just because I'm saying what you've always felt but refused to admit. Let's be honest here—how many times have you looked at Finral and wondered why people actually like him? Why they choose him over you, despite all your power?"
Langris's breath hitched.
"Let me guess—" Ghost's smirk widened. "You told yourself it was because they were weak. That they didn't deserve to stand beside you. That power alone should be enough. That being the strongest should be all that matters."
Langris clenched his fists.
"But that's not how the world works, does it?" Ghost sighed, shaking his head as if he pitied him. "Power without purpose is just wasted potential. And deep down, you know it too. You're afraid, Langris. Afraid that without your magic, you'd be nothing."
"Enough," Langris growled, his mana flaring weakly despite his injuries.
But Ghost just smiled. "I can help you."
Langris stilled.
"You think you've hit a ceiling, don't you?" Ghost continued, standing up, his movements slow and deliberate. "That you've reached your limit. That your magic—your precious spatial magic—is already as powerful as it's going to get. But you're wrong. You've just been looking at it the wrong way."
Langris narrowed his eyes. "And I suppose you have the answer?"
Ghost spread his arms in mock grandeur. "Oh, I do." His voice was smooth, coaxing. "Follow me, Langris. I can show you things the Clover Kingdom never will. Teach you the truth about magic, about real strength."
He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming despite his casual posture. "Come with me, and I'll give you something more than just power."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'll give you freedom."
Langris scoffed, his aquamarine eyes narrowing as he pushed through the ache in his body. His pride refused to let him waver, not in front of this arrogant bastard.
"And why the hell would I follow you?" he shot back. "What could you possibly offer me that I don't already have?"
Ghost let out a soft, amused hum. He didn't react with anger or frustration. No, he just laughed, as if Langris's resistance was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
"Oh, Langris," Ghost drawled, shaking his head. "You're asking the wrong question."
Langris tensed as Ghost leaned in, his presence almost suffocating despite his calm demeanor.
"The real question is—what the hell are you even doing?" Ghost's tone sharpened, his words slicing through Langris's defenses like a blade. "What's your end goal? Your purpose?"
Langris clenched his jaw, refusing to answer.
"Or let me guess," Ghost continued, his smirk turning razor-sharp. "You don't have one, do you? You just keep fighting, keep chasing strength, all because it's the only thing you've ever known. All because if you stop—if you actually think about it—there's nothing there, is there?"
Langris's fingers curled into the sheets beneath him.
"Are you really just going to keep playing the royal's loyal little dog forever?" Ghost sneered. "Loved only for your mana, praised only for your power, but never anything more?"
Langris's breath hitched, and Ghost saw it—the flicker of doubt, the tiniest crack in the armor.
"Face it," Ghost murmured, tilting his head. "You're trapped. Chained to an expectation you didn't even set for yourself. And deep down, you hate it."
Langris glared at him, but the fire in his eyes was unsteady now, his own thoughts betraying him.
Ghost simply smiled. "So tell me, Langris Vaude… is that really all you want to be?"
Langris froze. His breath caught in his throat, and for the first time in years, he had no immediate response. His mind raced, unraveling Ghost's words, dissecting every syllable like a blade pressed against his throat.
What do I want?
His whole life, the answer had been simple—be the strongest. Prove his worth. Outshine Finral. Serve the kingdom, uphold the prestige of House Vaude. He had spent years training, years clawing his way to the top, years silencing the nagging thoughts at the back of his mind that whispered things he refused to acknowledge.
And yet, here he was—defeated. Powerless. Being asked a question he should have an answer to, but didn't.
Is that really all I am?
His fists clenched against the sheets. His mana flared, sputtered, then dimmed again, uncertainty snuffing it out before it could ignite.
"What's wrong?" Ghost asked mockingly. "Cat got your tongue? Or is it just hard to accept the truth?"
Langris' heartbeat pounded in his ears. His whole body felt like it was being crushed, not by Ghost's magic, but by the weight of his own thoughts.
"Let me show you something."
A metallic-white glow flared as Ghost summoned his grimoire. But unlike the grand, ornate tomes Langris was used to seeing, this one was… different.
It wasn't a thick, leather-bound book with golden embellishments or an insignia of power. It looked—almost weirdly mundane. A simple notepad, its edges crisp and unassuming, without a cover to mark its beginning or end. Yet, as it floated beside Ghost, Langris felt the weight of something far beyond comprehension.
Finral inhaled sharply. His gaze locked onto the grimoire, his fingers twitching at his side as if he had just recognized something terrifying.
Langris turned to him, about to ask, but Ghost's voice cut through the silence.
"You've heard of it, haven't you?"
His aquamarine eyes gleamed, catching the faintest flicker of amusement at their reactions.
"Yes. It works the similar way as Julius Novachrono's."
Langris' breath hitched.
He heard it from his Captain. It was supposed to be a secret. The Wizard King's grimoire—boundless, ever-growing, without a cover to contain its vast accumulation of power. A grimoire that did not end, only expanded, page by page, as its owner's strength deepened over time. And now, before him, Ghost stood with something eerily similar.
A smirk tugged at the man's lips as he flicked his fingers, opening the notepad-like grimoire. The pages fanned out, glowing with an eerie silver sheen. Then, a pulse of mana surged outward, rippling through the space like a breath of truth itself.
Truth Magic: The Revelations Arc
The spell activated. A flood of hot flame swallowed the room whole. Langris barely had time to react before the magic seized him, dragging his mind into a swirling vortex of visions—so vivid they felt real.
The Philosopher's Stone.
Scarlet-red gems pulsed with an unnatural radiance. Alchemists toiled, their hands stained by the cost of ambition. He saw kingdoms rise and fall in their pursuit. Battles waged. Power hoarded. And then—
Something more.
Worlds beyond their own. Stars, planets, an entire universe untouched by the greed of kings and nobles. The vision snapped away, and Langris staggered, gripping his forehead as his pulse hammered in his ears.
Ghost remained still, watching him.
"This world is sad" His voice was calm, unwavering. "Endless wars over land, over resources, over meaningless titles. But out there…"
He gestured upward, toward the unseen heavens.
"There is more. A truth no kingdom has dared to grasp. A truth a mage has never dared to think."
Langris' breathing was uneven. The weight of what he had just seen pressed into his mind like an iron brand.
Ghost took a step forward, his tone turning inviting, yet sharp.
"Come with me, Langris Vaude. Follow something greater than the role they've chained you to. Find a purpose beyond being their noble guard dog."
Silence stretched between them, thick with something vast and unspoken.
Langris' breath came slow and shallow, his body stiff against the silken sheets beneath him. His mind was still reeling—turning over Ghost's words, replaying the vision, the undeniable truth burned into his skull.
The Philosopher's Stone. A key to another world.
It should have sounded like madness.
"Come with me, Langris Vaude. Follow something greater than the role they've chained you to."
Ghost's voice rang in his ears. Smooth, deliberate—unshaken by doubt.
Langris gritted his teeth, fingers digging into the fabric beneath him. "You're insane."
Ghost tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "Am I?"
Langris forced himself upright, pain flaring through his limbs, but he ignored it. "You expect me to throw everything away just because of some vision? Some grand fantasy about 'greater aspirations'?" He scoffed, voice laced with contempt. "You're delusional."
Ghost didn't flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened.
"And yet, you're still listening."
Langris stiffened.
Damn him.
Ghost took a slow step forward, his presence filling the space, pressing down like a stormcloud ready to break. "You saw it, didn't you? The truth. The cycle this world has been trapped in for millenium. The endless wars, the hollow victories, the false peace that only lasts long enough for the next conflict to rise."
"And you—you're sick of it, aren't you?"
Langris' breath hitched.
"How long have you fought? How long have you clawed your way to the top, only to realize there is no true top? That no matter how much magic you wield, no matter how strong you become, you're just another piece in their never-ending war?"
Ghost's voice was quiet now, but it carried weight. "You were born powerful, Langris. More powerful than most. But what has that power truly given you?"
Langris' jaw tightened.
"Respect?" Ghost sneered. "Admiration? No. They don't admire you—they admire what you can do."
Langris felt something crack deep within him.
"You were never loved for you, only for your magic. Your mana. Your ability to destroy." Ghost took another step closer. "And deep down, you've always known that."
Langris swallowed hard, but his throat was dry.
Because it was true.
He had always known.
His victories, his strength, his position—they were nothing but currency. Proof that he was useful. That he was worth something.
But not because he was Langris Vaude.
Only because he was powerful. Ghost's smirk softened, just slightly. "Follow me, Langris. Stop being their weapon. Stop being their dog."
Langris clenched his fists.
"You're offering me… what? Betrayal?" His voice was hoarse.
Ghost chuckled. "I'm offering you freedom."
Langris' heart pounded violently against his ribs.
Freedom.
Not the illusion of it. Not the tight leash of noble duty disguised as privilege.
Real, unshackled, ungoverned freedom.
To seek something beyond this world.
To be more than what they made him.
His fingers twitched.
It was madness.
It was treason.
And yet—
For the first time in his life…
It felt like a choice.
Seems like Ghost is building his army hopefully Abiel can fight back hehe:)
Please suggest characters to develop in this story. So we can make the story a lot more entertaining. PS to the next chapters - as fight against villains in the future will speed. Some will switch sides - some will receive early power boosts. I don't wanna follow the canon plot line like copy paste. I want to jumble the story to make it interestingly different.