“Well now… not bad at all. Warm life against cold death—she’s tracing the outline of that power. Not bad, not bad; she might nail it in one go.”

The Demon King propped his chin, rational light glinting in predatory eyes, and watched Aphelia’s power evolve like frost melting under dawn. Praise slipped out before he knew it.

He had tried to simulate it once—mere mimicry, a parrot’s echo. He never even glimpsed the door to flesh-making, pacing the threshold like a stray wind. Only today did a sliver make sense. Aphelia, though, vaulted straight up and pushed that door wide.

“Not necessarily. It could fail.”

The brown‑skinned Reaper girl shook her head. Her gaze fell to the strange clock at her chest, moon‑still, then lifted after a heartbeat.

“In your eyes she’s balanced life with death. In mine, she’s just cramming two powers together. She isn’t using balance at all. If she’d stepped into that field, her moves wouldn’t look this stiff.”

“But you’re still watching, aren’t you~”

The Demon King’s teasing made her blink. She tore her eyes off the breast clock, a sudden clarity blooming like lantern‑light. She fixed back on the power in Aphelia’s hands and began to parse it, cool as rain on slate.

The Demon King froze. He had joked without malice. Did he actually nudge her into insight?

“Hey, hey, don’t keep it to yourself if you found something. It’s critical right—”

Smack.

The brown‑skinned Reaper sent him flying with one palm, a storm gust brushing a leaf. She hadn’t even put real force into it, but being swatted mid‑breath felt awful. He caromed into the throne of ruins, knocking stone loose, mouth full of dust.

She understood nothing of “light or heavy hand.” In her grasp were souls. If she willed them gone, none survived; if she forbade it, none vanished. Simple as winter or spring.

His state now sat in a strange twilight. He was still within the realm of the dead, under the Reaper’s jurisdiction. That slap wouldn’t kill a wraith; it only spun his head, stars flaring behind his eyes. She tolerated no disturbance. Her whole being leaned into Aphelia’s unfolding, as if to sink into the current itself.

The Demon King patted his skull, rallied what little power coiled in him, and forced the vertigo down like bile. He crept back to her side, eyes on Aphelia on Earth, careful as a cat at the edge of a pond.

No jokes. If this Reaper girl marked him, a wraith would learn what pain beyond death meant.

He steadied himself and barely dared breathe. Crimson Fire and black Aether tried to merge under Insectoid power, then pried apart again like oil and water. His heart hung midway, a kite in a crosswind.

Under countless watching eyes, Aphelia drove the two powers to fuse. A single light‑point shone like a star at a ford, drawing out the Insectoids’ flesh‑making power. She felt it surge inside her—hot as blood—coursing through bones and sinews, returning to her hands.

It’s here.

A sting like current bit through her forearms. Aphelia’s eyes flew open. In her palms, the powers had fused—no Crimson Flame, no black Aether—only light, pure to the edge of silence. Silver‑white chains unfurled from that light and latched to her arms like moon‑bright fetters.

She felt her own power pouring into that light, a river pushing beyond banks. It outpaced her recovery, fast as locust flight. Aphelia stood far above a True God, strong enough to crush Origin; the power in her body was a sea.

But that light drank like a dying man—fast to draw, faster to burn. She could only hold its presence; she couldn’t dam the consumption. No wonder it could create flesh.

She glanced around and shouted at the two nearby.

“Find a weapon or a material strong enough!”

She drew a long breath and pressed both palms toward the light, trying to compress its appetite. The moment her hands neared, a massive resistance shoved back like a mountain. She steadied herself—then the hardened layer on her forearms shattered, bursting into blood‑stained shards.

“Aphelia!”

Violet cried out at the sight of keratin and blood spraying like crimson petals.

“Tch! I’m fine. Don’t mind me. Get something as close to Hrok as you can!”

Aphelia clenched her jaw. Power flowed out in measured pulses, disciplined as drumbeats. She couldn’t stop the leak, but she could force it into the smallest possible circle.

Too much more, and she simply couldn’t. The pain from her shattered arm‑layer still burned in memory. Her bleeding forearms healed in a breath, skin smooth again, yet the blood traced grim arcs. The tearing sensation lingered, a fire licking the nerves.

If she pushed past the line, would her arms rip open under that power?

She refused to picture it. Just as her strength began to thin, Violet wrenched Hrok’s warhammer from the ground and sprinted to her side.

“Will this do?! It’s Hrok’s life‑bound weapon. It holds fragments of her soul. When she transformed, she even left a Rune—”

“It’ll do! Violet, Uroboros—back away. I’m starting!”

Joy leaped in Aphelia’s chest like a sparrow, but caution smoothed it down. The power’s backlash had teeth. Creating flesh was a chasm; who knew what storms would break from it.

Uroboros and Violet moved at once, peeling to the sides. Uroboros rolled up the cockpit in black mist and carried Sigdrifa far off. She left only a thin strand of power nearby, a locator to teleport support if Aphelia faltered.

“It’s here, it’s here—she’s about to begin!!”

“Gods, please let her succeed…”

“Shut it. In your state, you still believe in gods?”

The chatter in the Collective Will cut off with Aphelia’s motion, silence falling like snow. Heron didn’t join the noisy fight, but after eras gone pale, she still found herself praying in secret for Aphelia—though she believed no god remained in this world.

Under all those eyes, Aphelia stilled and held her breath. She clamped the light sphere tight, then slammed it down onto the gray‑blue heavy hammer.

A burst like noon at sea exploded. Power and glare swallowed Aphelia where she stood. Every gaze turned white, a blank page burning.

“Damn it.”

Uroboros cursed low. Vision beyond mortals was a torment now. The whiteout came too fast; even she couldn’t dodge. The strand she’d left evaporated under the light, gone like smoke.

All eyes drowned in white, struggling back to breath. The flare around Aphelia slowly faded, brightness peeling away like mist. Focus drew tight to the waning glow. Every heart beat one plea.

Aphelia, please don’t let anything happen to you.

When the light cleared, her familiar silhouette still stood. Beside her, a second figure had joined the world.

In an instant, the watchers erupted in cheers. Aphelia stood unharmed, and the warhammer by her side had become a body—a full flesh form, face identical to Hrok’s.

“She did it!!!”

“I can feel the pulse in that flesh. It can hold a soul. This isn’t some necromancer’s puppet meat!”

In the Collective Will, nearly everyone shouted. Some minds wept outright. The reason was simple: Aphelia had proven she could create flesh. And not just flesh—the kind that truly houses a soul.

“As expected of Aphelia. She finally—”

“Don’t get carried away. There’s one last step.”

The brown‑skinned Reaper threw out an arm to stop the Demon King. Her gaze fixed on Aphelia, her face growing grave as storm stone.

Yes. One step remained: Hrok’s soul must truly merge back into that body. Only that fact would stand like a mountain, proof that cannot be shaken.