Yet Merlin only shook his head, his voice steady as bedrock under winter frost.

"The World Will will tell you all this. I can't give you an answer—nor should I."

He took the potion the tower spirit brought, adjusted it, and squeezed out a single drop like dew.

He swallowed it, and his spent power surged back like a tide at moonrise.

Merlin sat immobile, breath settling like still water, and refused to stir his Arcane Power.

He closed his eyes, like a gate shutting at dusk, no more words offered.

Given that, Aphelia held her tongue, the taste of iron resolve lingering like rain on stone.

Fortune favors the bold, she thought, ambition burning like a lantern in wind.

To become a True God, she would pay a price, as the elders did, sweat and blood like seeds in winter soil.

Yet one thorn still pricked her heart, and she had to pull it free.

"Master Merlin… who schemed against me, who left Violet in this state?"

That gentle tone made Merlin sigh deep, like smoke leaving an old brazier.

He opened his eyes and studied Aphelia's calm face, then shook his head like leaves in a slow breeze.

Her calm was a lake under ice; if her repressed anger cracked, the Ouroboros in her would surge like a storm.

She never spared enemies; mercy was not her spring, and that wasn't Merlin's worst fear.

"You're about to face the World Will," he said, words heavy like stones on a scale.

"I don't know if you understand fortune—luck braided like river currents—but now, more karma means more entanglement."

"Even if I already warned the World Will once like thunder over the city, you may still not get your answer."

Merlin rose slowly, like dawn climbing a ridge, and locked eyes with Aphelia's black pupils.

"Even if you risk losing your chance to become a True God, will you still do this?"

"Of course."

No hesitation, her reply fell like a blade in cold rain.

"I could give you an accounting when you return, later would not be too late…"

"Master Merlin, you may not know my nature."

She cut him off, her gaze firm as granite, her voice soft as velvet.

"Since the past, I've always repaid every slight—flaws answered like mirrors."

"I'm called a Hero, but I'm no saint; the title is a shackle like iron around my wrist."

"Those like Lilo who show me kindness, I repay with greater kindness, like spring returning to a frozen field."

"But those who deal me malice, who touch my kin and friends…"

She smiled, beauty blooming like a red spider lily on the banks of the Styx.

It was the beauty of death, a forbidden fruit glinting like midnight, untouchable yet tempting.

"I will spend my life, using the cruelest means, to take my revenge."

As if answering her words, a small ink-black snake slipped from the stream of light like shadow from a wave.

It coiled around Aphelia's arm, bowed its head in submission like a shrine beast, and nuzzled her palm.

Seeing the symbol of Ouroboros appear, Merlin sighed deep, like wind bending tall grass.

The power of Ouroboros had accepted her; her will now resonated, like two strings humming the same note.

Even if Merlin kept persuading, she would only smile and shake her head, then leave the Mage Tower like night falling.

She would raise a storm of blood in the Imperial Capital, rain red across stone streets.

Merlin knew that even if the capital mustered its strength, they couldn't stop Aphelia—she was a blade under thunder.

She didn't understand what the seven Black-Winged Angels signified, but one more communion with the World Will would summon them like ravens.

Then the guilty and the innocent alike would be weighed under her anger, like grains on an iron scale.

When all ended, Aphelia would become what Merlin dreaded most, a storm with a face.

Better to let her cut down the fools who courted death, even if a few small thorns snagged the hem.

Thinking thus, Merlin already had his answer, calm as ink settling in a bowl.

"What is it, Master Merlin, will you stop me?"

Aphelia watched him stay silent, smiling like moonlight on a blade.

The small black snake flashed ferocity, tongue a scarlet thread, glaring at Merlin like a coal behind glass.

Aphelia knew she wasn't Merlin's match yet, but she had a fight in her like a wolf in snow.

If she paid no price, maybe even Merlin couldn't hold her, especially after his clash with the World Will.

"No, no, Aphelia—please don't misunderstand…"

Silver-white radiance bloomed like frost fire, opening a portal beside them like a window in night.

"Since it's time to settle accounts, then let's go."

In a lavish manor on the upper tiers of the Imperial Capital, a man in fine robes drank with his retainers.

Dancers in thin silk finished their dance, then leaned close like moths to lamps, laughter bright around tipsy guests.

"Your Highness, your move was truly brilliant—one blow humbling the Crimson Dragon Clan, another cutting off their right hand!"

Flattery washed over the young man on the dais like warm wine, and he laughed, face flushed with drink.

A ward veiled the revel, a night curtain drawn over the manor; the feast was a secret lantern burning in the dark.

Satisfied, the young man tossed a handful of gold coins like falling stars, rewarding a fawning retainer.

The man trembled, raised the coins high, then knelt to receive them, chanting 'Long live, Your Highness,' like a drumbeat.

The guests roared and echoed him, forgetting they stood under the Demon King's shadow in the heart of the Demon World.

Just then, an armored guard hurried up, face grave as a storm cloud, and bowed low.

"Your Highness, the knight hasn't returned. Should we…"

"No need. The target isn't helpless. A little delay is a ripple, not a flood."

The young man waved lazily, brushing the guard aside like a leaf, and lifted his cup to drink in the praise.

He wore a dazed smile, a mask lacquered by wine, soaking in adoration like sun on a pond.

The guard tried to speak again, but the bodyguard at the young man's side glared like a hound baring fangs.

Anger rose, then stalled; rank was a wall. The guard swallowed it like a bitter seed, bowed, and backed away.

"What a lively scene. Mind if I join?"

A cool, enticing voice drifted from the courtyard like a night breeze, and the hall fell silent as snow.

They saw the figure in the courtyard, and noise surged back like a tide; whispers cut the air like crickets.

There stood a beautiful woman in black-feathered raiment, her silhouette sculpted like moonlit obsidian.

Under dim moon and starlight, the feathered robe framed a perfect body, invitation gleaming like wet ink.

The guests looked away, knowing their place like reeds before wind; such a prize was for the dais alone.

"I permit it. Come forward and let me see you."

The prince on the dais cast his gaze across his ministers, wondering which clever soul prepared this offering.

Aphelia gripped her ebony staff, her lips red as fresh blood curved into a stunning arc.

She walked to the center of the hall, eyes sweeping the crowd like a falcon, then slammed her scepter to the floor.

A steely clangor detonated through the hall like lightning in iron, and everyone clutched their ears, collapsing in pain.

The prince toppled too, disbelief frozen on his face, staring at Aphelia like a stag at a torch.

His bodyguard drew his blade, face dark as a winter sky, and planted himself before the prince like a wall.

Blood seeped from his ears like two thin streams; his sword-hand trembled like a leaf in wind.

He stared at the woman, baffled that an enemy had breached the manor's ward like rain through stone.

This ward was woven by Master Merlin, the True God; no Demigod could enter, and an intruder would trip its bells.

Worse, she held no ripple of Arcane Power; she was a shadow with no wind.

When Aphelia appeared, he had swept her with his senses, finding no Arcane Power at all, so he let her in.

Yet her presence now was a storm of ruin, cold and violent, and his grip nearly failed like ice on fingers.

"Who are you? How dare you rampage here? Do you know whose house this is?"

He shouted, quietly crushing a Rune like a seed in his palm; reinforcements would come if he bought time.

"Don't shout. And your Rune won't get out."

Aphelia raised her scepter, smiled at the cracked floor like a painter admiring a line, then pointed upward.

She gestured to the vault above, inviting the guard to look, her finger a comet under the ceiling.