“All this… just to awaken the Hero?” Albert stared as Ascaraun sketched a monstrous array, the lines crawling like black serpents; his breath iced like winter in his lungs.

“What? Didn’t I tell you to go set things up? Why are you still here?” Ascaraun’s brow creased like a storm ridge, his somber gaze swept over Albert like cold rain, and Albert felt horns press him to a wall.

Albert’s muscles cinched like drawn bowstrings as he faced Ascaraun, a battlefield rising like heat haze behind his eyes.

He was always like this—once deep thought swallowed him like a well, he saw every shape nearby as an enemy shadow.

And for enemies, Ascaraun’s first law was annihilation, a blade of frost before words.

“Ascaraun, wake up!” Albert’s shout cracked like thunder over a lake, carrying a strange chill through the air.

Ascaraun blinked, then his eyes smoothed like a calm pond; he gave a bitter smile. “Sorry. Ahem.”

“Still the same. Take care of yourself.” Albert sighed like wind through pine. “You know it—every time you enter that state, your vital force whiplashes you like a winter tide.”

“Hey, hey—enough. You’ve nagged that line a thousand times. I know.” Ascaraun shook his head, a weary breath leaving him like mist.

He thought, my iron brother’s good, but he’s stubborn as bedrock and noisy as crows at dawn.

No wonder after centuries he’s still got no girlfriend, handsome face or not; his temperament’s a battering ram with no roses.

Not that I’m any better, he grimaced—thin as a consumptive specter, and he knows it like a mirror under moonlight.

“Ascaraun? What’s wrong?” Albert watched his friend slip into silence like a stone into deep water, fear rising like smoke.

He dreaded this most—one day the goal might still hang like a distant star, and he would have pushed his friend to a grave, a joke turned coffin.

“Oh… nothing.” Ascaraun waved it off like dust in sunlight.

“Talk to me. What could bewilder you this hard?” Albert’s smile lifted like a lantern in fog.

“Mm. On that note, I’m interested—come here.” Ascaraun’s voice warmed like a brazier.

“Huh?” Albert frowned, puzzled, a ripple spreading across his face like a pond.

Ascaraun tugged the cloth on the table, then drew his hand through the air; the pieces stiffened like frost leaves and settled over the desk like drifting snow.

“Albert, the Norfiel Great Forest of the Elf Race is a perfect place to build a super‑massive magic array,” his words unfurled like map-lines over mountains.

“Oh?” Albert leaned in, seeing only swirls like clouds he couldn’t read, then turned to Ascaraun as if seeking a compass.

“Heh. This array’s called the Gate of the Inferno. Impressed?” Ascaraun smiled, light glinting like steel.

“Uh… honestly? Looks like you’ve hit your edgelord phase, brother—and it’s terminal.” Albert’s face twisted like a cramped script.

“You—! Gods, you’re a blockhead. I’m done explaining to you. Get out.” Ascaraun’s anger flashed like a flint spark.

Albert scratched his head, adjusted his armor with clinks like cold raindrops, then grumbled his way out like a bear leaving a cave.

Ascaraun gestured, and three violet figures drifted in like night moths.

“Chief, your orders?” the foremost asked, voice quiet as dusk.

“You’ll join the struggle between the Elf Race and the Beastkin,” Ascaraun said, words laid like stones. “But you stay in the shadows, moving like mist.”

“Yes.”

“When you reach the Norfiel Great Forest, don’t expose yourselves early,” Ascaraun warned, tone firm as oak. “First, go to these five sites. Bury these items like seeds. Then divert every water source you use downhill like silver snakes.”

“Yes.”

“Good. You may wonder—why give you special orders when Albert’s leading?” His smile was mild as spring sun.

“We don’t wonder. Your command is our highest directive,” the three answered, voices braided like reeds.

Ascaraun’s smile bathed warm as rain. “My brother’s clumsy. Handing all this to him invites a storm, so caution’s best. And remind him: place that piece at the center where the five points form a necklace, the pendant’s heart.”

“Yes,” they replied, steady as drumbeats.

“Last request.” Ascaraun’s eyes softened like moonlight on water.

“Please say it.”

“Take care of yourselves. Come back alive,” he said, the words landing like feathers and iron both.

The three were moved, a ripple through steel. “We obey!”

“You lot—what are you even doing?!” The Elder Hall of the Elf Race rang as Yorl slammed the table, the sound cracking like a dry branch.

“The whole continent knows the Beastkin are marching to attack us,” Yorl roared, face flushing like wildfire. “And our high council only now learns they’re at our gates, ready to tear down our house like wolves?”

“Yorl, don’t get so heated,” Avis said, fanning himself, calm as slow rain. “Your scouts failed. That’s your problem, isn’t it?”

“Avis, this isn’t your turn to speak!” Yorl’s glare cut like an icicle.

“Excuse me?” Avis bristled, his voice a rasp like flint. “They’re just a band of ragged remnants. You messed up and won’t even admit it?”

“And you?” Yorl snapped, words like arrows. “What right do you have? An idiot who only shoots from the shadows! The great Mother Tree bore you, and it’s a sorrow like bruised fruit.”

“You—!”

“Enough.” The Queen tapped her scepter, the note ringing like a bell, a rare anger painting her perfect face like a storm line. “Fine work, the lot of you.”

“During a grand council, you choose infighting over strategy?” Her brows knit like crossed branches.

Yorl shuddered, a cold river running down his spine; he thought of the humans he loathed—fond of infighting like crows over scraps.

“Your Majesty, forgive me.” He bowed his head, sincerity shining like clear spring.

The Queen nodded, the tension easing like snow melt.

“Fine work,” Avis muttered, his frown sharpening like a knife-edge. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Good child,” the Queen said, a smile like dawn. “Knowing you were wrong is the first step.”

“Now, everyone, let’s talk about how we break the Beastkin’s charge,” she continued, her voice steady as a river.

This place was a void like ink, a world with no edges; the girl drifted in the dark like a leaf on black water, not knowing how long the night had lasted.

She felt first, fear like a cold hand on her throat; action could wait like a held breath.

Time and space were stripped away like bark, and she floated in a realm unnamed, a tide with no moon.

She sensed it—somewhere, she had faced this question before, a mirror memory glinting like a shard.

“This must be that guy’s illusion,” she murmured, will tightening like a fist. “I can beat this.”

She sat cross‑legged, breath settling like falling snow, trying to train through the storm, to make the darkness pass like clouds.

Then she paused; the déjà vu hit heavy, a drumbeat too familiar, pounding like rain on stone.

She frowned, thoughts weaving like threads, only to have each thread swallowed by blackness like a well with no bottom.

She reached, heart first, for a force that could open a door, a light to escape—the wish burned like a candle in wind.

But no energy flowed in her body; no ripple answered around her; the world was still as buried ice.

She called upon godly power, trying to wake her Divinity, to banish every shadow—emotions and illusions alike—like sun through fog.

No response came; her Divinity lay silent like a sealed shrine.

So she watched, helpless, the darkness stretching like an endless ocean, her hope bobbing like a lone lantern.

As numbness crept over her like frost, a cold drop—sharp as sleet—touched her neck.

She jolted, fear spiking like a startled bird, eyes scanning the black like hunters in a storm—only void, endless void.

Her fingers touched her skin—no wetness, no trace; she exhaled, breath a thin thread, then felt her chest struck like a hammer, silence sealing her like ice.

After a moment, she shook her head, a bitter smile cracking like dry clay. Too sensitive, she thought, the word hollow as a cave.

Then killing intent fell, sudden and absolute, a winter night dropping like a lid; with no defense, she felt a hand grip her heart like iron, the beat trapped like a bird in a fist.

Fear surged, a flood through her mind, and she tried to drive it out like smoke—nothing moved.

Thankfully, the killing intent retreated after a heartbeat, slipping away like a tide; the dark remained, heavy as stone.

“Angela?” A soft call drifted like breeze, and the girl halted, wonder rising like dawn.

She lifted her head—above, a light waited like a star, holding out a palm like gold.

“Angela?” The call came again, louder, tugging like a river current; she clenched her teeth and swam upward like a salmon through night.

Slowly, a gold glow bloomed, a petal in the black, and her chest filled like a cup with warmth.

“Angela?” The call resounded, and her fingers met the sky’s beam like touching sunfire.

Whoosh.

She closed her eyes; golden wings unfurled behind her like a sunrise, and power flooded her body like molten light.

But she didn’t move; her eyes stayed shut, her form a statue—majestic as a mountain, lifeless as an empty hall.

Until a tender voice rang out, bright as a bell. “Sister? Sister, where are you? Sister—Angela’s scared. Sister! Sister!”

The statue‑still maiden opened her eyes; endless majesty poured from her gaze like a river of gold, condensing into tangible light that speared the sky like a sun‑lance.