The Tower of Final Stars is steeped in the Golden Era’s inert mana, a still pond that swallows ripples. Silver Era spells barely bite—that premise is why we came.

Even the elves’ Leaping magic won’t fire. Common elements get blown out like candles; after we cast, our mana refuses to refill.

We stocked up before the delve—MP recovery potions by the crate, HolyWater by the jug. Enough to sustain thirty days of flow. Yet every good draught bears two thorns.

First, cooldown. The first bottle sings; the second, taken too soon, turns to mud in your veins.

Second, potions don’t work on corpses.

Headache? Both thorns pricked us.

I don’t know what fraction of an artifact that scythe is—the scythe formed from the “Slaughter” Realm. But it could slay even my Greatsword. No body can meet that blow head-on. A graze means death. Even with Elina’s Divine Art, the Soul Return Prayer, Sorek won’t give us a window to cast.

Our mana’s running dry. Sorek flooded this place with wind and lightning elements by some trick, so his well stays fed while ours cracks.

I can hardly reach the Shadow Realm here. Three MP potions down, almost no regen. Stini and the others are probably the same.

A schemer like Sorek knows all of this.

He comes step by step, scythe in hand. No pressure, no aura. A mortal pace, like a mortal on a stroll.

“How long has it been since I walked on my own feet?”

My gut chills first: death walks beside him. We back away, but the corridor is a stone throat—how far can you retreat inside a neck?

Twenty meters. Sorek wasn’t lying.

No one stumbles from stupid panic. We don’t have to gamble blind. My mind works through routes in the fog. We could send Princess Golia. The Demon Slaying Sword carries two Authority Realms—Stability and Sharpness—to tank Sorek’s strike.

But is that all we’ve got?

The Demon Slaying Sword won’t break, yet “Gloria” might. As the Sorcerer Emperor’s experiment, her body inherited much of the sword’s nature. To keep free will, she had to bear some weakening.

No. Until she’s complete, I can’t make her bet whether Stability outmuscles Slaughter.

I bite down hard. No blood. No melodrama. Just a rare urge to test myself at a cliff’s edge.

So… it’s me, isn’t it?

I lean forward, set a runner’s start. The Godspeed Realm wrecked more than my right foot. Fractures, organ falter, a cascade of small dooms. Elina’s Divine Art—let’s call it Soothe Wounds—pulled me back some. Not enough. Doesn’t matter—

Lower the center. Palms kiss stone. Back arches. The whole body tightens, a bowstring drawn to the ear. Ready—

“Idiot Andor, what are you doing? That thing can’t be broken. My Immunity Privilege doesn’t work on concepts made solid. Hey, maybe we should—”

“So, will you come with me?”

Stini, I can’t let you hog the spotlight every time. It’s my turn to say that line.

Stini, go look in a mirror—your funeral face is awful. It doesn’t suit you.

Stini, you won’t be satisfied, will you?

I don’t know your full story. What the elven Saintess begged of you. How many times you saw your uncle. What vow you swore against fallen blood. Failing your one thing—how suffocating must that be.

Sullen that you’re a Hero, yet can’t do a thing.

Sullen that nothing gets saved.

Sullen that every crisis pushes you back.

For our safety, you’d swallow it and quit. I refuse.

For you to laugh beside me each day, I’ll stake my life. Ah, though I don’t plan on dying.

It’s fine. I’ll help. I’ll lend you strength—and a reason.

A Hero, in the end, is someone who bravely does what most call not worth it.

Right, Stini?

Of course, I’ll only admit I’m working hard for a girl’s affection. That’s my story and I’m keeping it.

I smile at her, don’t wait for a reply. I shoulder the Greatsword and sprint into the twenty-meter prison of death. At the instant of collision, I step into the Godspeed Realm.

Die die die die die die die—

Death floods the sky. Sorek didn’t lie. This is the Godspeed Realm’s assault.

I can see it. The scythes peck like storm-rain, hopelessly dense. Sorek isn’t a martial grandmaster, yet few grandmasters could reach this.

I slip where I can, cleave at scythe-edges, push forward. In Godspeed, every motion drags like honey. I swing the Greatsword and feel my hand’s muscles tear.

First step: three meters forward.

The light of blades thickens. Sorek’s cuts already hit like hammers. Now I can’t swing. Block left, and right carves me open. So—

Sword as shield. Right hand clenches the hilt over my head. Let the blade hang. Shoulder braces the spine. Speed stacked, I jump again.

Valor grows colder in my grip, the greatsword turning into a block of indifferent iron that only happens to be sword-shaped.

Second step: five meters forward.

Damn it. A storm of scythes hammers the blade, bleeding my speed away. I thought I could land at Sorek’s feet. Not that easy.

My right hand’s done. A scythe bit it. No feeling now.

Worse, I’m about to hit the ground and get sliced thin.

Third move: Shadow Dive, a mid-tier Shadow spell that bites like a high-tier when it works.

The scythe slams the floor, only shearing my shadow.

Wait—

The dive won’t hold. The Shadow Realm thins under me. It squeezes me out like a cork.

Third step: three meters forward.

Damn it. Anna really dotes on this bastard. His “Slaughter” can even murder the concept of “Shadow” itself.

Ten meters left, yet it feels as far as a sea without shore. Layer upon layer of blade-light blocks the way. The skull opposite stares calm and sad, as if at another innocent offering.

I grip with my left, swing, lash scythes aside—more pour from my right.

Ha. Now, we hope. I throw myself forward without a plan.

Andreas was iron-strong. He never hoped. He never prayed to miracles. He believed only in himself.

But I’m Andor now. Andor, the Hero’s companion. Shadow Artisan Andor Mephy. Even in roleplay, you need self-discipline, idiot. So I choose hope. I choose others. Even if it kills me, so be it.

The right-side scythes close in. Another finger, and they’ll open my skin, sever vessels, crack bone.

A longsword bars them all. The blade is a Holy Sword named Galewind.

We can’t speak in Godspeed, but I see her clear brows and that confident smile.

Ah. That’s enough. I’m satisfied. My right hand was worth it.

We each take a side, batting the storm back, pushing on. One more charge and—

Eight meters remain. The rain of blades vanishes in a blink. I stumble. I should lunge—but a larger crisis nails me in place.

No. I can’t see. I’ve dropped out of the Godspeed Realm.

The math failed. Two Godspeed bursts in a row carved injuries that won’t mend. Damn it. We were a breath away. Do I reveal my true self here? All that work, wasted?

Death doesn’t arrive late, and never early. It keeps the appointment.

But there’s no pain. Aside from my numb right hand, I’m whole. The warning stops flashing. Why—

“Stini…”

She’s let go of the Holy Sword. Both hands clamp the scythe speared through her abdomen. Her face is veiled in death’s shadow.

“Heh… now you… can’t run… right…”

Even as her life-lamp gutters, she smiles. She smiles at me. No blame at all.

“Andor… it’s yours now… really…”

Shock burns hotter than anything. Of course I know why she used her body to stop the scythe—because I was drowning.

Damn it, Stini, you idiot. Why choose the least efficient way?

Let me die. Kill Sorek. Then bring me back. Your wounds are lighter. Wouldn’t you reach him faster?

Idiot. Stini, you idiot!

I won’t cry for you. That’s inefficient. I’ll spend your sacrifice to step one stride closer to a Hero.

So I say—

“You idiot…”

Use me as bait—that’s better, isn’t it? You wear the laurel—that’s better, isn’t it? Why die to save me?

Idiot idiot idiot—you’re not some cute airhead, you’re an idiot!

In less than a heartbeat, Sorek’s scythe is locked and useless. He has no close-quarters answer. The Greatsword comes down. From crown to tailbone, he shatters to grit.

I don’t scoop Stini up and wail. She’s gone. She can’t hear me. I won’t do that soft, pointless thing.

I stand by Sorek’s resurrection point, leaning on the Greatsword, blank-faced, darker than my usual corpse’s mask.

Lich Sorek. Last life. I’ll kill you myself and cast you into the Shadow Realm, never to rise.

By the Demon King’s wrath—die.