What now?

Do I use the Script?

But what if it still won’t give me the ending I want, like a cloud that won’t rain over parched fields?

What if it shows up in red letters, a brand of “fixed future,” and I have to swallow it like bitter snow?

Even if it’s black letters, what if I can’t break it—no, can’t even nudge it—like a river locked in ice?

“Three seconds~”

Do I concede…

Yeah… lost again to my own pride, like a kite cut loose by its own string.

Forget it… that’s my limit… the mind’s a fogged mirror; I can’t see a path. I’ll accept it like falling dusk.

You agree, right? Sister?

Sister…

Sister…

“Two seconds~ Heehee, in two more seconds, Miss Ling and Miss Alicia will be mine~ Don’t worry, I’ll treat you like I treat Elfe~”

Is that so… fine… at least there won’t be any [doujin plot] for me and Alicia next. If that storm never comes, I don’t care about the drizzle.

………

Is it really okay?

What a joke!

We swore to protect Alicia, sworn like an oath carved on stone!

We swore to build the Mystic Realm, a dream like lanterns strung across night!

And today I’m supposed to admit defeat to a toy game, like a tiger caged by wicker?

Ab—so—lu—te—ly not!

“Fixed future”? “Fate”? Not today. You won’t stop me, like reeds that can’t block a tide.

You won’t make me yield, not one step, not one breath.

—“Fear of the future”? Then I’ll beat it, like sunrise burning off frost!

The little girl’s hand drifts back, quiet as a leaf in wind, palm opening to grasp a ghost.

—“Unchangeable”? Then I’ll conquer it, like a mountain path carved through stone!

Her small fingers close on empty air, and ripples bloom like a pond struck by rain.

—“Fixed fact”? Then I’ll kill it, like a snake beheaded in one stroke!

In the end, she holds something—black, square, its cover humming like thunder trapped in lacquer—the Script.

—“The so-called ‘future’ is mist. Why fear a passing cloud?”

Mana pours in; the cover’s pulse swells like a heartbeat. A ruby set in its skin flares, a drop of blood catching fire, as if hooking itself to something unseen.

No loading bar this time; once mana surges, the book works at once. Pages flip themselves like autumn leaves in a quick wind; every yellowed sheet breathes age like dust motes in sun.

“‘West Rite: First Void Ward’”

No speeches, just eight red characters—stamped like seals on wax—some unknown magic. I only need to read it, like following a river’s current.

“One second~”

“—‘West Rite: First Void Ward’!”

………

It connects. The whole arena falls silent, a hush like snow over a field.

The name’s long, but it rolls fine, like bells under velvet. Then… what?

The spell should have fired, right? But there’s no show at all, like thunder with no rain.

Look at a simple fireball—at least it crackles! Yours sounds epic, but when cast, it’s quiet as a sleeping stone?

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

………

Okay. There’s sound now, though not from the magic—more like a curtain tearing in a storm.

“Wh-why! How do you know magic! I hid it! I sealed it with more than six thousand seals! How do you know that name!”

Huh?! From Amelia’s scream, I must’ve flipped a very bad switch, like pulling the pin on a painted grenade.

And judging by her face, this spell’s dangerous—high voltage behind silk. Why else bury it under thousands of chains? Sealing materials aren’t table salt; they’re iron and bone.

“Mm… how I know is my business. Hurry up and continue; you’ve got seven seconds left~”

The wheel turns~

As the old saying goes, fortunes shift like a river’s bend—don’t bully the underdog.

But what even is this spell? Why no reaction, like a drum struck under water?

Or has it already taken effect? Maybe… yes. Otherwise why’s Amelia’s face suddenly bright red, like sunset flooding a cliff?

Ling thinks the spell hit, turning Amelia red like wine. But Amelia herself doesn’t think so.

Why! How did she get that magic’s name! I guarded it like a vault under mountains!

An inside traitor? No… unlikely. Only I and a few trusted ministers know. Those old fossils wouldn’t leak for sport.

Then Ling snuck in and stole my magic while I blinked? No… alarms would’ve howled like hounds. And Ling wouldn’t know I hid this one at all.

That leaves one answer—the book! Yes, that sudden book. Ling saw it, then spoke the spell! Does that magic book steal names across distance, like a net cast over invisible fish? Then—then the others I stored there—did she see them too?!

Unforgivable! Unforgivable! She found those magics—she found my life’s ugliest, most mortifying, most hated—black history!

“Six seconds~”

If so… if so… I have to silence her. Even if I lose. Even if I die. I cannot let those spells spread, like embers into dry grass.

“Five seconds~”

The countdown hits five. Amelia steels herself, murder hardening like frost on steel.

Her head snaps up. Fingernails bite into her palm like thorns. Her lips are clamped, and her eyes blaze, a wolf’s glare under storm-light.

But Ling doesn’t notice. Not because she’s dense—no. It’s Amelia. She’s… crying.

Not wailing, but tears spill, pearls sliding off her lashes, and those tears smudge her fury like rain blurring ink.

It looks less like rage, more like a little girl caught with a secret—shame burning like a lantern behind paper.