The instant she opened her eyes, time iced over; Arcane Power that had erupted went still, and Merlin and the Tower Spirit hung like insects in amber, unable to move.
Even the entire Mage Tower shuddered under that tide; across the imperial capital, many elites started like birds from brush, their gazes wheeling toward Merlin’s Mage Tower.
Fresh from the fog of unconsciousness, Aphelia felt lost; emotion churned first, then motion came, and every gesture brimmed with a power alien to her old path.
She swept her gaze around; the world sat frozen like a painted scroll, and shock pricked her spine; she pulled her power back, and the Tower breathed back to normal.
Merlin hovered midair and blinked; seeing Aphelia drifting below like a moonlit leaf, he understood, sighed with a wry smile, and glided down with the Tower Spirit.
“What… happened?”
Aphelia shut her eyes; her mind-sea listened to the current within—seemingly chaotic, yet moving with its own hidden order, rising beyond Demigod, then ebbing to nothing.
For all her experience, she could not name it; it was no Arcane Power, no element, but something beyond common sense, soaking every thread of her body.
Ignore it, and it was a silent lake; stir a thought, and it welled between her hands; if she had to describe it, a flick could drown the world.
She believed that if she’d held this then, the Church’s warships were nothing; even the Holy City’s gates would be roads she’d dare to walk.
While her thoughts traced circles, Merlin and the Tower Spirit floated before her; reflex surged first, caution next, and power gathered at her hands like stormlight.
“No need to tense. The thing that tried to seize your mind—I handled it.”
Merlin opened his palms, empty as clear sky; the Tower Spirit mirrored him; and with her current vision, she saw no malice—otherwise, she wouldn’t mind testing them.
Then she saw Merlin’s face, and her power folded like a fan; emotion settled, thought followed—this was the one she’d been seeking, though similarity alone wasn’t proof.
“Where are we?”
She took in the surroundings; the tower’s elegant machinery stacked like clockwork mountains, and a glance etched everything into her mind-sea like ink on rice paper.
“This is my Mage Tower. The bastard-born of the Crimson Dragon Clan sent you here, so we could deal with what’s inside you.”
Seeing through her worry, Merlin smiled, let his hands fall, and spoke as if laying a clean table.
Aphelia half-believed; she had fainted fighting Ouroboros’s power, and Lilo sending her here wasn’t strange; still, prudence rose like winter mist, and she said:
“Let Lilo see me first…”
“She’s recuperating now. You’ll have to wait a bit.”
The air snapped to frost; power streamed back to Aphelia’s fingers, and between them a stand-off formed like drawn blades under moonlight.
The Tower Spirit sighed like wind through chimes, and opened a teleportation array at her side; its gate led straight toward Lilo like a river to its source.
Through it, Aphelia felt Lilo’s Crimson Dragon Source like heartfire; yet grief from the Hydra Clan’s annihilation shadowed trust, and she would not step lightly again.
“I know you doubt me. Then let me prove it; prepare yourself, in case I turn and the sky darkens.”
Merlin smiled at her, patient as a lantern; if Lilo saw this, she’d grumble—aloof to her, a touch ingratiating to Aphelia.
Hearing that, Aphelia set anger aside; she tuned to the new flow, will stirring like a breeze, and a silver-white blade bloomed into her hand, hanging at her side.
It wasn’t arrogance; this power itself was a mountain; let him prove it, and if cracks showed, she’d tear the veil and leave like lightning.
Merlin only shook his head with a rueful tilt; star-silver light flowered beside him, and he traced an array unlike any magic circle she’d ever seen.
It wore the form of an array, yet walked an opposite road to her old circles; the power that etched it rang at her level like twin bells.
Her grip tightened; the blade drank her power like a deep well; at the slightest wrong, she would rip the void and step away like a shadow.
Before she moved, a familiar figure stepped from the light; her master—the Valkyrie—arrived like a scarlet comet.
“Merlin. Rare, seeing you call me.”
Her voice drifted from the far side, cold as iron and known as home; through the array, Aphelia saw her fighting someone—or something—beneath coiling Crimson Flame.
Blood sprayed onto that flame, hissed, and fled as vapor; the sight was a battlefield’s brushstroke, stark and clear.
“I didn’t want to. But she doesn’t believe me, so I need you to vouch.”
Merlin waved, turned the array toward Aphelia, inviting proof, ignoring that the Valkyrie fought with fire licking her armor.
Aphelia watched, cool as a still pond; likeness wasn’t truth, and without solid evidence she wouldn’t hand him her trust.
“Give me a minute.”
She struck; a shriek tore the air, a silhouette unraveled to smoke, and Crimson Flame rolled in, burning it to clean ash.
She turned; her eyes seemed to read the script of Aphelia’s body, then softened; she smiled and spoke like warm tea.
“Aphelia, looks like you’ve solved most of it—and found the one.”
Crimson Flame danced on her fingertip; warmth touched Aphelia’s brow, and a spark of that flame parted from her forehead and settled in her palm.
The pulse was unique, like a signature on jade; without doubt, this was the Valkyrie herself.
Aphelia knew she’d found the right person; she sheathed the blade like folding a wing, apologized to Merlin, and let her quiet power fade like mist.
“Then he’ll point your way. What comes next isn’t mine to worry about.”
The Valkyrie’s flame flickered, answering the ember in Aphelia’s palm; in a blink, Crimson Flame slipped through the array and returned to her side.
The array closed at once, like a drumskin cut, then scattered to silence under unseen interference.
Merlin flinched as if pricked by a nettle, shook out his arm, and muttered under his breath like rain on tile.
With the misunderstanding cleared, Aphelia treated him no longer like a stranger; she bowed in apology, knowing he’d steadied her body and her future road to a True God needed his lamp.
Merlin waved it off like smoke, smiled, and said, “Bu—”
The word snapped; sound vanished while his lips kept moving like a fish in glass; Aphelia frowned and glanced at the Tower Spirit.
The Tower Spirit’s face shifted like a cloud; she leaned and whispered in his ear, and he stopped, then smiled with awkward warmth.
“Sorry, sorry. Had a hiccup in my spell practice lately. Aphelia, how do you feel about your state?”
She didn’t grasp what had happened, but his explanation slid in like a plausible note; maybe he had knots he couldn’t untie aloud.
On power, her spirit lit; excitement first, words next. “I feel better than ever, almost—”
At her fingertip, the current circled like a silver fish; her voice faltered, caught between eagerness and a shadow of fear.
“Almost at a True God’s level, right?” Merlin smiled at her like dawn at the rim of night.
