“What are you going to do?”

I took the Holy Sword and gave it two lazy swings through empty air—heavier than a Greatsword, like lead soaked in rain.

I glanced back. Stini tilted her head, eyes clouded with doubt; like clear water, no hint she’d hidden its weight to prank me.

Then it clicked. The Holy Sword targeted the Demon King in me; the blade grew like a mountain, and my strength thinned like mist.

Well… troublesome, like grit in tea. But it’s fine. We don’t need to fight anymore, like a storm already blown past.

Parrotti stepped up and spoke to the figure ahead, words tossed like stones across a pond.

“They are—”

“Yeah. They are. Raven was right.”

“Can we trust them?”

“We’ve got no choice but to.”

“…Alright.”

His presence was overwhelming, like thunder behind a mountain. Yet he just shrugged, lazy as falling ash, and brushed hair from his eyes.

Then he faced me and Stini, seriousness in place like a blade on a whetstone.

“First, welcome. I’m Fei—Fei Miller, one of Nagash’s disciples.”

“Fei Miller. Earned Senior Engineer certification at twelve. Unique insight into mana flow. Lead designer on the Truth Seekers Assembly’s ‘Mana Cross-Parallelization’—credited with one-third. Lazy by nature, cares only for mana research; even skips papers and awards, so the field barely knows him. As for personal ability: a prodigy in mana sensing; a leading figure in mana dominion, directionality, and loss mitigation. On his home ground, the Hall of Truth, his usable mana is near inexhaustible.”

“Not bad. You missed one thing: my burst throughput isn’t capped either. Still, rare to meet someone who studied me this deep. You an Arcane Engineer too?”

“No, sorry.” I lifted the small notebook Abigail gave me, like a seal under moonlight. “Royal intelligence.”

“I see. Shame.”

He said the words, but his face didn’t bother with disappointment, eyelids half-closed like a cat warmed by a hearth.

“…Alright. Enough chatter. I’m the gatekeeper here. If you want to pass, you’ll have to beat me.” His voice settled like a stone in a riverbed.

Mana surged around Fei, circling him like a flock of starlings, humming so loud it shook the bones.

It felt as if Element, the Elemental Divine Being, stepped down to earth. The mana he stirred rose like tides, and what faced us wasn’t a man, but the sky’s wrath, a god’s shadow, a Demon King’s claw.

The gale pinned our eyes shut; mana streamed by like molten glass, scorching the skin. Stini shouted through the storm:

“Andor! Give the sword back! I can’t fight without the Holy Sword!”

“No need. Just watch! Just watch.”

I glanced at Parrotti for a nod. He gave a grief-tilted smile, like a willow bent in wind, and motioned me on.

With that, I pushed forward through the suffocating density of mana, right hand dragging the Holy Sword, left shielding my eyes, like a traveler bracing against sandstorm.

He said, voice steady as an anvil:

“You must defeat me.”

I met those languid eyes bright with iron will, like embers beneath ash. “I know.”

The bones in my right hand, shattered by Maki, hadn’t healed right. Gripping the hilt sent a slow ache rippling outward, mapping hairline fractures like winter frost.

The sting felt just right, a spice in bitter wine.

It pairs well with a hero’s tragic death, I thought—blood on half a tunic, a toast poured under a setting sun.

“Anything you want to say?”

I asked him.

Then the Holy Sword cut Fei in half, clean as lightning splits a cedar. His heart thumped in the chest, each beat pumping a river of blood.

Do people hold this much blood? I stared, lost, as if at a red waterfall at dusk.

He fell. The mana storm fell silent. The retreating tide howled like a dirge beneath a pale sky.

“…Nothing else… My experiment logs… I gave them all to Lily…”

Fei’s half-lidded eyes flew wide, as if a star broke free. He fumbled at the ornament on his chest, fingers skipping across it like a code, then took off a tiny cube etched with intricate lines.

“…Right… take this…”

The motion was too fierce for a dying man. Blood flooded his lungs like a black wave; coughing tore through him.

“Cough… cough… Give this… to… Raven…”

“Anything else?” I asked, voice low as rain.

“…That’s… all… Thanks…”

Only a long sigh answered me, and those drowsy eyes finally closed, like night settling over still water.

“This is an Arcane Core. Every great Arcane Engineer makes their own—habits, dreams, techniques etched inside. It makes handling arcane components easier,” Parrotti said.

He took the cube from Fei’s hand and pressed it into mine, then sighed and made a sign of blessing, like incense rising in a quiet hall.

“These components are fine work. Won’t you take them?” he asked, palm hovering like a leaf over stillness.

“High-grade generics can be bought if you’ve got coin. Better to leave what he loved here, to watch over him, like old tools by a grave.”

Parrotti nodded heavily, like a bell tolling.

“True. Good. So be it… Time’s short. Miss Stini, please follow. I’ll—no, I’ll leave the explaining to Lord Andor.”

He sighed again, pushed open the door behind Fei, and, like before, slipped through first, a lantern before a small procession.

Behind me, Stini clutched my sleeve and demanded answers. I searched for words like a fisherman casting in fog.

“Why did you kill Fei!”

“Whether it was me doesn’t matter. Who did it doesn’t matter. What matters is he chose death, and died there, like a vow sealed in stone.”

“Why! Say it clearly!”

“The same reason as Nagash. Stini, haven’t you seen? This castle—the Hall of Truth—is a colossal altar. Everyone here, except you, me, and Raven, is a sacrifice.”

“…No, this is—”

“You know it. They’re people who decided to walk toward death. The living shell is a lantern; the flame inside is already promised to night.”

“Wait, no—”

“Nothing’s wrong. This makes two. All you can do is stand aside, witness their passing, and remember. That’s all, like carving names into wet clay.”

I dragged the Holy Sword forward. Stini froze, like a deer in snowlight.

The next one had no presence at all, like a rock half-buried in shadow, unnoticed by rushing feet.

But when you truly looked, his aura had depth like a ravine. He was a rock; then a hill under it; then the boundless earth below, plate on plate.

A vast, weighty presence, like thunder held in stone.

No skin showed. No hair either. If not for the intent in his gaze, he’d be no different from the Construct behind him—an empty shell under cold stars.

He asked nothing. Parrotti said nothing. A nod passed like a torch in the dark. The man drew back his gaze, leaned on his Greatsword, and the eyeslit of the three-meter giant in armor flared crimson.

That gaze was glacial. It made the heart shiver like a leaf on ice.

“I am Brown. Brown Dan. One of Nagash’s disciples.”

His tone was stiff and heavy, like iron rivets.

“Brown Dan. Denied Engineer certification for lack of mana dominion. That didn’t mean no talent. Quite the opposite—he’s obsessed with the mechanist branch of arcanotech, and a born genius with externalized mana armor. He built the first mana armor with a fully external mana source, opening the door for ordinary people to pilot mana armor. Nobles now boast of owning sets signed by Brown Dan.”

“Correction.” His voice was muffled by steel, like thunder behind a wall. “The first set was finished under Master Nagash’s guidance.”

“Got it. I’ll remember… Then this is where you say…”

“Heh.” Even his laugh was dry and rigid, like sand in a gear. “I’m the gatekeeper here. To pass, you must defeat me.”

The armor shifted into battle state. Red light poured from every seam, venting surplus mana like molten rivers—terrible in this narrow hall.

He raised his Greatsword high. The aura rose like a sky pillar, like a Demon King’s claw tearing heaven and earth.

Behind him, one Construct after another in similar mana armor began to charge, their inorganic scans brimming with murderous intent like winter wolves.

An army born for Slaughter.

Now they stood fully armed, like a tide about to break.

“Then… as you wish.”

I said it.

I stepped in, met the killing intent that would split me in two, and gripped the Holy Sword, Galewind, in both hands. I thrust it into a seam of that majestic armor, like a needle finding the vein.

Burning flow raced along the blade into my hand. The smell of charred flesh curled up like black smoke.

I pushed with everything I had, forcing the blade upward. The Holy Sword sank, inch by inch, into Brown’s body. He didn’t move, a statue carved from night.

The Greatsword hovered above my head. Wind off its edge cut a few hairs, and stopped a breath from my scalp, a guillotine frozen mid-fall.

I felt the pierce, the give of flesh, the rush of blood like sand sliding in a glass. I stopped pushing, and let the blood run down, sizzling on the red-hot blade like rain on a brazier.

The rest soaked my burned hand like a cold river.

Does blood soothe burns? Maybe. I didn’t know.

“Do you have anything you want to say?”

I asked the giant as life seeped from him like heat from coals.

“…Core…” He tore a necklace free and pressed a tiny cube into my hand.

“I understand. Anything else?”

“…There’s… one more…”

“What is it?”

“…Could you… bury me… beside… Lily?”

I hesitated, like a pause between waves. Then said:

“Sorry. I can’t. We need—”

“…Ah… I understand… Don’t trouble yourself…”

“Anything else?”

“…No… thank you…”

The three-meter armor lost its last warmth, and froze standing, like a sentinel of stone—just like the forty-four mana Constructs behind him, rigid as a winter forest.

Parrotti patted the breastplate, a quiet farewell, and made a sign of blessing, like a candle cupped against wind.

“Let’s keep moving. The road ahead is still long.”

He pushed the door. When he looked back, his smile was still gentle and polite, like tea steam in morning light, yet that thin veil of grief wouldn’t lift, like fog that clings to a valley.