[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

[Rumpelstadt Mines]

"Can't believe the old fuck is struggling with these weaklings…"

Elena spoke the words flatly, not even with malice—just an exhausted kind of disdain, as though she couldn't fathom how reality had inconvenienced her again. Perched atop the uneven cliffside that overlooked the Rumpelstadt Mines, she sat with her legs dangling off the edge, boot tapping idly against the stone. Dust clouds below rolled and twisted from the ongoing fight.

Her blue eyes, bright yet lifeless with boredom, tracked the Legatus's movements down below. Conroy—towering, imperious Conroy—was grinding his teeth mid-combat, an expression she had never once seen on him before. That alone amused her.

She let her posture sink further, draping an arm lazily over her knee.

("Huh. That blonde twink—I remember him. The little idiot tried flirting with me ages ago. Gods, the desperation. I thought he was dead.")

Her gaze drifted to Ivan for a moment. The prince looked sharper now, more controlled, his right eye burning with that cracked-crown glow. Improvised sword in hand. Shoulders squared despite the tremors around him.

Her eyes slid to Alexander—who sprang back just in time as huge stone pillars erupted from the earth, Conroy's glyph detonating beneath him.

("And the mutt… right. The lycanthrope Conroy mentioned in his reports. Strong body, seems like he's got shit impulse control though. Why isn't he turning? Is he stupid? Or scared? Or holding back for that prince? Who the hell knows. Though he doesn't seem to be that grey wolf.")

She exhaled slowly.

She wanted Conroy dead. Wanted his rank. Wanted the title of Legatus. But doing it herself felt… dull.

Letting the prince and the mutt take a crack at him?

That at least had entertainment value.

"Though this whole thing's boring as shit," she muttered, shoulders slumping. "Ivan's awakened as a Nil but he's barely doing anything with it. And that lycanthrope's just… slashing air and whining."

She turned her eyes toward the distant horizon—toward the source of the massive tremors that shook the land every few seconds. A plume of dust and light far away surged upward like something clawing at the sky.

"What the hell is even going on out there?" she murmured. "S-class Deseruit Beast? Some freak experiment? Should've gone with Morgan. At least she's entertaining…"

A beat passed.

She sighed.

"…Well. No point complaining now. Show me something good, boys."

Below her, the battlefield roared.

A brilliant circular white glyph ignited at Conroy's feet—perfectly inscribed, clean enough to look etched by a steady hand. Wind compressed around him in a tightening cyclone before bursting outward in a violent shockwave.

Ivan saw the red threads too late—much too far to cut. The blast slammed into him like a wall of knives. Thin red cuts blossomed across his arms and legs as he was hurled violently backward, spinning.

Alexander moved instantly.

He leaped back, bracing his foot against a jutting slab of torn earth, intercepting Ivan mid-air. Ivan crashed into him hard, the impact jolting through Alexander's spine, but he forced himself to stay grounded, feet digging shallow trenches into the soil.

"S-sorry," Ivan grunted, breath shaky. "I reacted too—too slow…"

"Just don't make a habit of it," Alexander muttered, setting him down. "I'm already having a hard time not ripping loose. The bastard's face is seriously pissing me off."

Ivan steadied himself, shaking out his numbed arm. Conroy stood motionless and still calm. Allowing them to breathe as though confident he didn't need to push.

Ivan's voice was low as he spoke.

"Then we just continue. His spells—they're not overwhelmingly destructive. But they're precise. He's deliberately avoiding overloading them so I can't alter the outcome."

Alexander groaned. "Fantastic. Magic crap. I hate magic."

"I'm starting to understand the basics," Ivan murmured, half-thinking aloud. "Every spell has a structure—expression, execution, mana ratio, intent, the direction it pushes into reality. His elemental magic doesn't seem to be raw power—it's just refined. He's adjusting variables I can't interrupt unless he miscalculates."

Alexander shot him a sideways glare. "Are you explaining this because you think it helps me," he asked, "or because you're trying to calm yourself down?"

Ivan hesitated. Then exhaled.

"…A bit of both."

Alexander snorted.

"I swear you princes talk like your stomachs are made of poetry."

"…What does that even mean?"

"Means you talk too carefully. Just spit it out next time."

A brief, tense silence.

Ivan allowed a faint smile. "I'll try."

Alexander scratched the back of his neck. "Good. 'Cause I'm about to lose it if this guy keeps looking at us like he's bored."

Before them, Conroy tapped his boot lightly against the ground—an impatient gesture.

"Are you two quite done?" the Legatus asked, tone firm but oddly unhurried. "I imagine you've realized that even running won't spare you."

Alexander lifted his hands, claws extended, stance widening. "We weren't planning on ever running."

"They never do," Conroy replied.

Ivan and Alexander surged forward at the exact same heartbeat, Conroy didn't flinch. His expression didn't even sharpen as he simply lifted his right hand.

Two enormous blue circular glyphs—dense and layered manifested behind Ivan and Alexander. Ivan's eyes cut toward the glyphs before the glow even finished swelling.

He saw the threads. Felt them—those delicate thin conduits pulsing.

"Not this time," he muttered under his breath.

In one smooth, motion, he moved his arm and sliced the threads with his blade, severing them a split second before the glyphs detonated.

Both glyphs discharged in a violent blast of blinding blue lightning—branching forks that tore the air apart with a crack that shook the ground—

—but the attack went wide, missing them by inches.

Alexander didn't even look back as he reached Conroy first.

His arm snapped forward, claws out—slashes aimed at Conroy's ribs, shoulder, throat, then a low sweeping strike for his legs.

The Legatus leaned back from the throat slash, stepped around the sweeping strike, rotated his shoulder out of the rib-line, and tilted his head away from the final claw by what felt like a single indifferent centimeter.

Alexander didn't pause—his attacks continued: a rising slash was evaded, a cross-cut was dodged, a downward chop was sidestepped, and a hooked claw was parried by Conroy's wrist with ease.

"Your form is good," Conroy said conversationally. "Predictable… but good."

Alexander gritted his teeth. "Shut—" His claws raked forward again. "—the hell—" Another slash.

"—up!"

Conroy stepped inside the blow.

With precision, he placed his palm against Alexander's sternum.

Not a punch but a palm strike, gentle-looking—until the impact landed.

A concussive shockwave burst outward. Alexander's breath left him in a rough grunt as he was launched backward, skidding across the cracked ground in a spray of dust.

Ivan arrived just as Alexander hit the dirt.

He didn't charge blindly—he knew Conroy wasn't someone you closed distance on without caution. Ivan veered a step right, recalculating—

Then heat blasted against his cheek.

A pillar of fire erupted beside him—roaring and bright enough to paint half the field.

Ivan's instincts screamed. He kicked off the ground and leapt back, boots skidding across scorched ground.

"Damn!" Ivan hissed.

Conroy lowered his hand slightly, the flames shrinking as if responding.

"That Null Schema," Conroy said, tone analytical, and annoyingly relaxed. "If your evolution was higher I imagine it could have acted as a structural anti-magic framework that severs internal mana pathways rather than dispelling surface constructs."

Ivan narrowed his eyes. "…I dislike talking about hypotheticals. I'll beat you as I am." Ivan stated. "And how exactly are you going to continue countering me?

"Hm," Conroy hummed. "You can't use it freely. There's a recoil. A delay. The more complex the structure, the more taxing it becomes for you to alter the outcome."

Ivan froze for half a heartbeat.

Alexander groaned as he pushed himself back to his feet. "…Don't let him monologue."

"I'm not monologuing," Conroy said calmly. "I'm giving your friend advice." He lifted one finger. "The counter is simple: Overwhelm him with layered constructs at different distances. Force him to choose what to cut. He cannot sever everything at once."

Ivan's eye twitched.

"Oh fantastic, yes—please continue explaining how to beat me to my face."

"You asked," Conroy replied.

"I wasn't actually asking."

Conroy tilted his head. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Ah," Conroy said gently. "Then you should have clarified."

Alexander stepped beside Ivan, shoulders tense, breath steadying. "I don't care what he understands. We just need to pin him down."

"Agreed," Ivan murmured, rolling his wrists.

Conroy watched them both with the patient.

"Then come," he said simply. "I'll adapt."

"Yeah, no… this is actually getting so fucking sad to watch."

The words drifted into the battlefield with disdain, the tone of someone commenting on a dull tavern brawl rather than a life-or-death struggle. The voice didn't belong to Ivan or Alexander. It slithered in from behind them, lazy and unimpressed.

Conroy's eyes narrowed immediately—his instincts reacting before his mind could even register the speaker. Ivan and Alexander both stiffened, a small jolt running through their bodies as the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel grew louder. They exchanged a tense, confused look before parting just enough to glance back.

Elena stepped into view with a languid posture, she yawned—long and unabashed—and her sharp blue eyes turned over Ivan and Alexander with a level of disinterest that felt almost humiliating.

"Lieutenant…" Conroy's voice dipped into a frustrated rumble. He stared at her as she placed both hands on her hips, posture relaxed. "You were supposed to stay by our lady's side."

("Lieutenant?") Alexander clicked his tongue sharply. ("Goddamn it. Seriously!? A Lieutenant? No fucking way—just what we needed.")

Ivan, for his part, felt something entirely different coil through his chest—something warm, confusing, and horribly out of place for the situation. ("She… she seems familiar. Too familiar. And why the hell is she… so beautiful?")

"Oi, fucker, stop staring or I'll send you to the damn sun," Elena snapped without even looking at him. Ivan startled, blinking as if waking from a trance. She tilted her chin toward Conroy instead. "Anyway, Morgan went to check out that fight causing all these tremors."

Conroy's expression hardened instantly. "That's Lady Morgan to you. And you mean to tell me you abandoned your assigned post—left our lady entirely unattended? Inconceivable."

"She's plenty strong, you old fuck," Elena replied with a roll of her eyes.

"I am your superior," Conroy barked, stepping forward, "and you will not speak to me in that—"

"Oh yeah," she cut in, her grin blooming wickedly, "about that."

Her smile should've looked vulgar—but on her face, it didn't. It sharpened her beauty instead, made her look otherworldly in a way that bordered on dangerous.

"You're stripped of your position as Legatus."

The words landed heavily.

"What?" Conroy snarled. "You think you can—"

"I can, actually." She almost sang the words. "Our dear Lady Morgan promoted me. She wanted someone who could actually, I dunno, fight? Thought that'd be nice for a Legatus."

"You lie," Conroy growled. His mana pulsed in irritation, stone cracking beneath his feet. "You may be a Nil, but being only in the fourth stage—"

"Oh, that?" Elena lifted a brow. "Yeah, old news. I'm fifth stage now."

Conroy froze.

She leaned in slightly, tapping her temple with one finger. "So y'know… I'm pretty fucking strong."

"I will not let this—"

"Yeah, whatever." She waved a hand dismissively. "Enjoy space, dumbass."

She snapped her fingers.

There was no flash—no explosion—no burst of magic for Ivan or Alexander to track. One moment Conroy was there, fury boiling off him in thick waves. The next—he was gone. Vanished without a trace. Not even the air rippled.

"Ah?"

"What?"

Ivan and Alexander could only stare, dumbstruck. The silence afterward felt wrong, too empty for what had just occurred. But Elena didn't give them time to process it.

"Now…" she sighed, stretching her arms lazily overhead, "what the hell do I do with you two?"

Both of them immediately stepped back, the reality of their situation crashing down on them. They might've been fighting for their lives moments ago—but this? This felt like staring down a calamity in the form of a woman.

Ivan swallowed hard. The same instinctive feeling he'd felt around Dante—the instinct that whispered monster—rose strongly again, pressing down on him with a suffocating weight.

"You two look like you're about to piss yourselves," Elena said bluntly. She tilted her head, focusing on Ivan again. "Where the fuck's that firebird and wolf of yours? Thought they'd jump in and help or some shit."

"...Huh?" Ivan's fear quivered, then twisted into confusion. "What… what are you talking about?"

Elena blinked once. Twice. Then narrowed her eyes.

"Ah? You stupid or something?" she asked. "And why do you look at me like you don't know who the hell I am?"

"I… I don't…" Ivan stammered, his voice cracking around the truth he couldn't make sense of.

Her expression shifted for the first time—a split second of irritation, then something almost like disappointment, then a shrug that dismissed all of it.

"Eh. Doesn't matter." She waved him off. "You two are fucking weak anyway, so who cares what you remember or don't remember. Not like it changes shit."

Alexander's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak. Ivan could feel his tension beside him like heat.

"I ain't wasting time killing you," Elena added, flicking her bangs. "You're not worth that much."

And then—just like before—she was gone. No sound, ripple or trace.

"What the hell just happened?" Alexander finally blurted, voice tight with disbelief.

"I… I have no idea," Ivan breathed, chest rising and falling too quickly. His hand drifted unconsciously toward his racing heart. Even as he tried to regain his bearings, her face—her voice—her presence—stayed burned into his mind.

("I know her… I do. I know her. So why the can't I remember?")

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