Chapter 109: Duas Manus Caelorum
A/N: sorry i've been gone for a while, I was working on a long project (horrible excuse but I swear it was what happened)
"Steel Magic: Vis Ferri!" Yul yelled, rushing towards the general again, his fists speeding up into a barrage.
The general didn't even flinch, raising its lance and blocking every single one of Yul's punches. With a fluid motion, it swung its lance across Yul's chest, and a long, thin cut appeared on the steel mage's breast, drawing blood immediately. Yul grimaced, and Il Cavallo raised a gauntleted hand, using a shockwave to send him flying. The General readied it's next move, and a ghostly, almost robotic voice rang from beneath its mask.
"Imperial March."
Its form shimmered, and it turned into a streak of silver light, uprooting trees as it sped towards Yul, its lance poised to strike. It was impossible for him to react.
The lance struck the steel mage, hitting him squarely in the chest and sending an almighty shock through his body. Yul coughed blood, but grit his teeth, pouring more and more mana into Iron Clad Max. The general was not fazed, however, and with a vicious heel kick, sent Yul staggering, the world spinning around him.
Yul regained his senses, roaring and rushing back at the General, fists gleaming with power. I'll have to go for one good hit!
"Steel Magic: Rumbling Fist!"
His fist glowed with grey light, the very particles in it vibrating with power as he landed a mana infused blow on the general-
It tanked it. Nothing happened.
"You're taking the-"
The general kneed him in the stomach. Yul's vision blurred, pain pulsing through every nerve as he staggered backward, barely keeping himself upright. The general loomed before him, untouched, unbothered, an embodiment of war's relentless march. Makaela stood behind it, her eyes sharp with cruel satisfaction.
"This is the end, human," she declared, voice rising with fervor. "You fought well, but this is a battle beyond your reach. You, like all your kind, will crumble beneath the weight of history." Her lips curled into a smirk. "My vengeance is absolute."
Yul spat blood, glaring. "Release Mira!"
Makaela scoffed. "Still clinging to that? Even as your body fails you?" She gestured, and the phantom general's armor hummed with power. "Il Cavallo Argenteo, bring forth judgment."
THe general once again responded robotically. "Divine Judgement."
The air tensed. A sudden whine of energy crackled through the battlefield.
Yul's instincts screamed. He barely had time to throw up his arms before a beam of silver light erupted from the general's lance. It carved through the air like divine wrath, vaporizing the ground in its wake.
"Steel Magic: Iron Curtain!"
A massive wall of hardened steel erupted before him, thick and sturdy…and it shattered instantly.
Yul's eyes widened as he staggered back. Another beam fired. Another wall. Another annihilation.
Faster. More. Again.
Steel barriers bloomed in rapid succession, a desperate barricade against the onslaught. Each one held for less than a second before crumbling beneath the sheer force of the general's magic.
He couldn't keep up.
The beams came faster, cutting through his defenses like a scythe through wheat. The ground beneath him exploded, sending him tumbling. He barely caught himself, only for a new blast to graze his shoulder, searing agony through his body.
Yul gritted his teeth, forcing himself up. His muscles screamed in protest. He was slowing down. This wasn't just raw power - the general was adapting, analyzing, whittling down his defenses with ruthless precision. Every countermeasure he took, it answered before he could even react.
Makaela laughed, exultant. "What's wrong, steel mage? Realizing the difference between us?" Her voice rang out over the battlefield, triumphant, hungry. "You humans think you can claim the world, carve it into your image, bend it to your will-"
Another blast. Yul barely dodged, but the heat licked at his face, searing his skin.
"-but you are fragile, weak, doomed to fall before true power. You think your fists mean anything against the weight of history? Of war itself?"
Yul panted, his arms trembling. Blood dripped from a dozen fresh wounds. His vision swam.
But he refused to fall.
He forced his legs to move, staggering forward.
"Mira…" His voice was hoarse, raw. "Release her."
Makaela's smile twisted into a sneer. "Or what? You'll keep standing? Keep fighting?" She spread her arms wide. "Look at you. You can barely lift your fists. Every blow you land is meaningless. Every step you take brings you closer to death." She took a slow, deliberate breath, savoring the moment. "And still, you never know when to kneel."
The general raised its lance once more. The energy gathering at its tip made the air quake, a miniature storm of destruction waiting to be unleashed. This wasn't just an attack. It was an execution.
Yul clenched his fists, steel groaning as he forced more mana into his broken body. His breath came ragged, his eyes burned, and his body felt broken. Finally, he collapsed to the ground in a heap.
"What a shame," Makaela muttered. "I guess I'll finish him myself."
She walked over to Yul, and raised her hand. "Phantom Magic-"
Suddenly, a memory flashed through her mind, almost painful, causing her to stagger back.
This body is resisting me?! Is her will to protect him really that great. Curse you, human girl-
The memory came back again, this time more volatile. Makaela dropped to her knees again, the pink wings on her back starting to flicker. Her grimoire flipped its pages, and began to glow a light purple.
"Phantom Magic: Ghostly Visions," Makaela murmured.
…
"Please! I don't…I don't wish to do this anymore!" an eight year old Mira begged, tears streaming down her face.
Her father, a tall man with black, spiky hair and a clean shaven face, whose eyes were cold behind his steel-rimmed glasses, didn't flinch. "You are the heir of House Zavala, my child. Now go again."
"Pleas-"
"Go again. Do NOT MAKE ME REPEAT MYSELF!"
Mira flinched visibly, and with trembling hands, got into a stance, as if she was about to dash forwards. Her legs felt heavy, as if they were chained by a thousand ghastly hands.
"Don't mess this up. Don't mess this up," Mira muttered, her hands glowing with magic. She took the first tentative step forward, and in an instant… she vanished.
Zavala raised an eyebrow, and then Mira reappeared on the ground, blood seeping out from a large chunk of her hand that had gone missing. The agonised cry of a child is never one that anyone wishes to hear, and Mira's wail was no expectation. It echoed through the dingy hall of House Zavala, nothing Her father did not flinch, his expression carrying disappointment, and even a hint of resentment.
"Remember this pain," he said, adjusting his glasses, his expression never changing. "It means that when all was said and done, you were worth nothing."
Mira's cries stopped instantly. Even for an eight-year-old, her perception of the world around her was great, and like eight year olds did, she had been gaining an understanding of values and morals, including what it meant to be "worth" something.
To be told it was worth nothing… it hurt her badly. And for some twisted reason, her cries turned into body wracking sobs.
This was a regular occurrence in the twisted House of Zavala. A lineage of powerful phantom mages, an almost institutionalised family with an emphasis on results - if you didn't show an affinity for Phantom Magic at a young age, you were nothing. They were a wealthy family, with many connections.
The Zavala family had a strange curse, that being that they could only have one child alive at a time, after a deal gone wrong many moons ago. This put even more pressure on poor Mira to do well and become strong, so much so that when her father looked at her, all he could see was her results - and that determined her worth.
Fiore Zavala had married a woman that, for now, we will address as Lady Zavala. From a significantly weaker-in-status noble family, she had immediately become beloved by all the servants, who had doted on her. Zavala's only concern was bearing a child, however, and after 5 years of their marriage, it happened - at the cost of Lady Zavala's health. Even 8 years later, she was still sickly and bedridden. Her wish was always for the servants to be kind towards Mira, and that they did.
Mira did not remember how long she had cried that night.
The pain in her hand had faded into a dull, ceaseless throb, but the weight in her chest remained, heavy, suffocating. The words of her father echoed over and over in her head, twisting into something monstrous, something unbearable.
You were worth nothing.
She had been carried out of the room by a servant, her small body limp with exhaustion, her breath coming in shuddering gasps. She did not fight it. She did not speak. She only listened - to the silence, to the distant footsteps of her father leaving, to the rustling of fabric as the servant set her down in bed.
The cold of the manor pressed in around her.
It was just another day in House Zavala.
…
The cat purred softly in Mira's lap, the rhythmic vibrations a contrast to the cold stillness of the chamber. Midnight had always been a quiet creature, never demanding, never judging—just there. Mira let her fingers trail through his sleek fur absentmindedly, her other hand curled against the hem of her dress, gripping the fabric tight enough to wrinkle it. She kept her head bowed, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of the cat's breathing, as if looking anywhere else would make her shatter.
From her bed, Lady Zavala watched her daughter closely. The girl had always been quiet, a trait many mistook for obedience, but a mother knew better. Silence could be submission, yes, but in Mira, it had always been a shield. A defense against something much deeper, much colder. And that silence had only grown heavier as the years passed.
Lady Zavala shifted, the simple act of moving sending a sharp ache through her frail body. But she ignored it. "Something is on your mind," she said gently. "Speak it, my love."
For a moment, Mira did not respond. Midnight stirred in her lap, sensing the tension in her hands. Then, in a voice so small it barely reached her mother's ears, Mira whispered, "Do you think I'll ever be worth something?"
Lady Zavala's breath caught.
Mira's fingers curled tighter into the cat's fur. "Father says I'm worth nothing." Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to continue, as if saying it aloud might somehow make it less real. "He said it when I was eight, and I don't think he's changed his mind since."
She swallowed, feeling the weight of the words settle in her chest like lead. "Even when I succeed, he doesn't praise me. He just looks at me like I was supposed to do it. Like it was expected." Mira bit her lip, hard enough to sting. "But when I fail… he looks at me like I don't deserve to be here at all."
A bitter smile twitched at the corner of her lips. "Maybe I don't."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Midnight let out a small, uneasy meow, nuzzling against Mira's hand, but she didn't move.
Then, suddenly, there were hands on her face. Gentle, but firm. Lady Zavala had leaned forward, gripping her daughter's cheeks as if afraid she might disappear if she let go. "Mira," she whispered, her voice thick with something unreadable. "Look at me."
Slowly, Mira lifted her gaze.
Her mother's eyes, pale with sickness but still burning with a quiet intensity, locked onto hers. "Your father is a man who only understands strength. He sees people as pieces in a game - things to be used and discarded. And in his world, worth is something that can be measured." She exhaled, her fingers trembling slightly against Mira's skin. "But he is wrong."
Mira frowned, her throat tightening. "How do you know?"
Lady Zavala smiled, but there was sorrow in it. "Because I have seen the kindness in you. I have seen you comfort the servants when they weep. I have seen you feed the strays in the courtyard when no one else would. I have seen you love, Mira. And that alone makes you worth more than any magic, any title."
Mira wanted to believe her.
But her father's words were carved too deep.
And in the end, only his voice rang in her head.
…
The grand hall was cold. It was always cold, but tonight the chill felt different. It burrowed into the bones, into the very foundation of House Zavala.
Mira sat curled on the floor just beyond the doorway, the darkness concealing her as she clutched her knees to her chest. Beside her, her ever-loyal maid, Estelle, pressed a finger to her lips, signaling for silence.
Inside the room, their whispers were sharp enough to cut.
"She is a child, Fiore," Lady Zavala's voice, hoarse but determined, carried through the walls. "A child, not a weapon!"
Fiore Zavala remained unmoved. "She is what she was born to be. If she is weak, she has no place in this world."
The rustling of fabric, as if Lady Zavala had forced herself to her feet. "If you strip away her soul, what will be left? A husk? A puppet to your will? I will not allow it."
A pause. A shift in the air.
"You think you have a say?" Zavala's voice dropped, cold and absolute. "You are bedridden, weak. A woman clinging to a child she was never meant to have. Do you know how many in this house view you as an inconvenience?"
Mira could hear her mother's breathing grow unsteady.
Zavala continued, merciless. "She is mine to mold. You—" He exhaled sharply, as if she were nothing more than a frustration. "You will not interfere."
The sound of paper sliding against a desk followed his words.
Mira shifted ever so slightly to see through the crack in the door. There, illuminated by candlelight, her father leaned over his desk, quill in hand. A sealed envelope, thick with weight, rested beside him. The insignia on the wax seal was not that of Clover.
The Spade Kingdom.
Mira frowned, confusion flickering in her mind. Why would her father be writing to them?
A glance at Estelle told her the maid understood more than she did, the woman's lips drawn into a thin, grim line. But she said nothing.
Mira didn't understand that what she was witnessing was high treason.
She didn't understand that in the coming year, none of this would matter.
Because House Zavala would cease to exist.
…
The sky was painted in streaks of blue flame.
It was beautiful in its own twisted way, reflecting off the cold stone of the courtyard, illuminating the ash that floated through the air like snowfall. The once-grand halls of House Zavala had become a funeral pyre, the scent of burning wood and bodies suffocating the night.
Mira stood motionless in the middle of it all.
The bodies were scattered. Servants who had once whispered kind words when no one else would, guards who had patrolled the halls with silent duty, her mother, her father...
Midnight.
The cat lay still on the steps, fur blackened, the gold of his eyes dulled into nothing.
Mira did not cry.
Estelle knelt beside her, gripping her shoulders with a force that should have hurt. "Mira," the woman rasped, her voice tight with grief and urgency. "We have to go. Do you understand me? We have to go."
A gust of wind carried embers past Mira's face.
She had walked past the assassin, foolishly asking her where her mother was.
She had seen her, standing at the entrance, bathed in the eerie glow of the flames. She had not spoken. Had not moved. Just stood there, watching.
She had not screamed. Had not run.
She had not killed her.
That alone should have terrified her.
Instead, she felt nothing.
Estelle shook her. "Mira!"
Slowly, Mira turned her head, her once-vibrant amber eyes now dull, lifeless. Hollow.
The blue flames reflected in them, but there was no spark of fear, no grief, no rage.
Only quiet acceptance.
"There's nothing left to build," she whispered.
Estelle's breath hitched.
Because she knew.
The Mira Zavala she had known…That girl had died here, with the rest of them.
…
Makaela snapped back to reality, the rush of cold air hitting her face. The general stood above her, motionless, waiting for her next order, and below her, was the human which she had bested. Yul. For a moment, she was still, taking some time for her brain to reconfigure itself.
"Thank you, Mira…" a voice croaked beneath her, causing her head to snap down. It was Yul's
"Foolish human. You think,-" Mira began, but he landed a punch squarely on her jaw, causing her to stagger back.
"I saw your struggles, Mira," Yul muttered, looking down, his grimoire rapidly flipping its pages and floating with a renewed glow in the air beside him.. "I saw your pain - no, I felt it. I felt the pain of a bleeding heart."
"Poetic all of a sudden?" Makaela snarled. "Il Cavallo Argenteo! Strike him down!"
The general, spurred back to life by its summoner's voice, raised its lance, thrusting towards Yul.
The lance came screaming down, aimed to skewer Yul through the chest, but his hand, wrapped in a layer of shimmering steel, caught it. The sheer force of the impact sent cracks splintering beneath his feet, dust spiraling into the air. The weight of the spectral general's power was immense, pushing against him like an avalanche, but Yul held firm.
He exhaled, slow, measured. His fingers clenched around the lance, steel grinding against spectral force, sparks bursting at the point of contact. "I was never meant to be strong. Never meant to win, especially against an opponent like this. And yet..."
His grimoire flipped wildly, pages flashing like strobe lights, his mana surging. A new spell burned into existence, written in bold, unwavering text.
Steel Magic: Duas Manus Caelorum.
From his back, two new arms erupted, formed of steel, shifting, alive. Their surfaces gleamed like liquid metal, veins of mana pulsing through them as they flexed, twisted, stretched. Yul let out a sharp breath, adjusting to the new presence of limbs that weren't there a second ago. His body felt heavier. Stronger. The ground beneath him groaned as his newfound power pressed against it.
"I will win! I will save you!"
Il Cavallo d'Argento's visor glowed with cold calculation. The phantom did not hesitate.
"Imperial Thunder Charge."
The ghostly steed launched forward, the battlefield itself quaking beneath its hooves. The force of the charge threatened to rip Yul from the ground, but he moved—his new arms coiling around a shattered tree, dragging him out of the path of destruction. He landed hard, only for the warhorse to turn on a dime, spectral energy kicking up debris as it circled for another attack.
"Divine Judgement."
The lance ignited, burning silver, thrust forward. A wave of cutting force shot toward Yul, slicing through the very air itself.
Yul reacted. His two extra arms snapped outward, stretching unnaturally, one grasping the ground while the other detonated - a controlled explosion of steel that sent him careening sideways, narrowly avoiding the blast.
But the general was relentless.
"Domain of the Phantom Knight."
A chorus of unearthly horns rang out. From the fog, an entire legion emerged—dozens of mounted knights, their lances crackling with ethereal energy, their eyes hollow voids of endless battle.
Yul's breath hitched. His arms stretched, grabbing the closest ruins, launching himself above the stampede. His steel limbs curled, then unleashed, raining down razor-sharp shards that detonated on impact, scattering the ghostly cavalry.
But the real threat wasn't the knights.
"Silver Shockwave."
The spectral warhorse reared back, its hooves pulsing with fate-bound light - then slammed down.
The shockwave tore through the battlefield. The blast hit Yul in midair, sent him crashing into the ground, pain searing through his bones. He coughed, blood splattering against metal. His vision blurred. The general was already upon him, lance raised for the final strike-
But somewhere, deep within the storm of magic and steel-
…
Mira was fighting too.
Her feet were bare, slamming against the cold marble floor as she ran.
The world around her was an endless void, stretching forever in every direction, broken only by a single door in the distance. It was massive, gilded in silver and black, its frame carved with the symbols of her family - of House Zavala.
She could feel the weight of the elf's presence behind her. Makaela. A force like chains trying to drag her back, clawing into her skin, whispering of vengeance and fate.
"You are mine."
Mira didn't stop running.
"This body is mine."
Her legs ached. The air burned in her lungs.
"You do not belong."
The door was close now. Just a few more steps—
"You are weak."
Something latched onto her ankle. She fell, crashing onto the cold floor, fingers scraping against nothingness.
Makaela's grip was iron, her nails like daggers digging into Mira's skin.
"You think you have control? You think you have the right to EXIST?"
The words slammed into Mira like a physical blow.
Her mind fractured for a moment. She saw her mother's face. Saw the embers that had once been her home. Saw the ashes of what she used to be.
She clenched her fists.
And kicked.
Makaela reeled back.
Mira scrambled forward, throwing herself at the door—her fingers grasped the handle—
She shoved.
The symbols of the door vanished, replaced by those of the Silver Eagles. The door exploded open.
Light - blinding, endless, real - poured in, engulfing everything.
…
Yul moved.
His steel limbs stretched outward, a metallic whip-crack as they shot toward the phantom, grabbing the edges of its spectral armor. He wrenched himself forward, using the momentum to twist-
"Steel Magic: Vis Ferri Max!"
His extra arms expanded, each one brimming with energy. They exploded forward, striking the general in a relentless barrage - each hit shattering through its spectral form, tearing through its defenses.
With a final, earth-shattering strike, his fist punched through its chest. The general froze. The light in its visor flickered, then died. The warhorse collapsed into mist. The armor crumbled.
Il Cavallo d'Argento was no more.
But Yul wasn't done.
He turned - his body a blur of motion - and rushed Makaela.
She barely had time to react. She flinched, bracing herself for impact-
But the strike never came.
Instead, Yul's arms wrapped around her.
A gasp escaped her lips, her entire body tensing. The warmth of his embrace was foreign - human.
And then-
She shattered.
Mira fell forward, her breath ragged, her hands gripping his shoulders as if trying to anchor herself to the world. Makaela was gone. The elf's presence had vanished into the void.
Yul held her tighter.
"I found you," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I felt you."
She trembled.
"I love you."
Mira's breath caught.
And then, just as the words settled into the air, Yul's body went limp. His steel arms flickered then crumbled away, breaking apart like dust in the wind.
He collapsed against her.
Mira barely managed to catch him, sinking to the ground, his weight pressing into her, but she didn't let go.
She didn't want to let go.
For the first time since she was 13, Mira Zavala cried. Not because she was sad.
But because she was immensely grateful.
A/N: Four-armed Yul is a thing I've wanted to do for a while
This was nice to write
I'm tired as hell though