Flaw Of RuneTerra (Black Clover X League Of Legends)

[ThePoroKing]

This is so hype

 

[trashtaker]

Y'know if the league lore was still canon (seriously riot wtf man) y'all think Asta would have been kidnapped by them to become a champion?

Also interaction between Asta and the darkins would be funny considering how similar they are lol

 

[SaberGlory]

Darryl hadn't known what to expect that morning, other than the usual, brutal training regimen his Captain put him through.

Captain. He still couldn't help but feel a strange thrill every time he said it.

So when Captain Asta appeared at dawn and told him they were heading to the council chambers, Darryl's curiosity flared. It wasn't like Asta to seek out nobles or officials. He was… too straightforward for that.

Now, seated in the antechamber outside the council room, Darryl fidgeted nervously. The polished marble floor gleamed beneath his boots, reflecting the bright morning light that streamed through the high windows. The guards standing along the walls kept giving him sidelong glances, looks that were neither kind nor welcoming.

He kept his head down. A mage had no place among Demacia's elite.

When Asta finally emerged from the chamber, Tianna Crownguard, the High Marshal herself, walked beside him. Darryl's heart nearly stopped. The Tianna Crownguard, the highest authority in all of Demacia, second only to the throne.

And she was speaking to his captain. Calmly.

He didn't know what Asta had said in there, but before he could even think to ask, they were heading toward the training grounds, accompanied by a squad of guards. Darryl followed quietly, trying to ignore the whispers around them.

What happened next would stay burned into his memory forever.

The moment they reached the courtyard, the soldiers of the Dauntless Vanguard surrounded Asta. There were at least a hundred of them, the pride of Demacia. And then, with a faint smile, Asta agreed to a "demonstration."

Darryl could only stare as his captain moved.

It wasn't a fight, couldn't even be called one. Asta dismantled the entire company with impossible speed. Every movement cracked the air, every blow dropped a knight before the others could even blink.

In less than a minute, the elite of Demacia lay sprawled across the courtyard, groaning in disbelief.

Not even Garen Crownguard, the legendary leader of the Vanguard, had managed to best him when he stepped forward to intervene. Asta had disarmed and floored him with frightening ease, though without malice.

Darryl thought it was over. It should have been.

But then she stepped forward.

The Dragon-blooded warrior, Shyvana. Darryl still remembered when she first came to Wrenwall. It was the first time he saw dragons, although he only caught a glimpse before he was ushered to safety.

Her eyes burned like molten gold as flames erupted around her, wings of living fire coiling and folding inward to form a blazing cocoon. The air shimmered from the heat as the cocoon expanded, swelling until it filled half the training grounds, the ground beneath it glowing red-hot.

Across from her, Asta's expression didn't change.

Darryl's breath caught as he saw it, black lightning rippling across Asta's right arm, the very air vibrating from its charge. Then, with a crack of thunder, a single black wing burst from his back, spreading wide like a storm-born banner.

The courtyard fell silent for a heartbeat. Then the world seemed to split in two, one half consumed by fire, the other alive with shadow and lightning.

And Darryl, standing frozen at the edge of it all, could only whisper in awe,

"So this is magic."

The sound that followed wasn't just a roar—it was a cataclysm.

Flames surged outward as Shyvana's cocoon of fire exploded, the shockwave slamming through the courtyard like a hammer of molten wind. Darryl flinched, throwing his arms over his head as debris scattered and the heat licked at his skin. The marble tiles beneath his feet cracked and splintered, glowing faintly red from the sheer intensity of the transformation.

When he dared to look up again, the Dragon had fully emerged.

She towered above the training grounds, scales glinting like living embers, each movement radiating power and heat. The air shimmered around her, thick and suffocating. Her wings unfurled with a thunderous whump, casting a shadow that stretched across the entire courtyard.

"By the Light… she's… she's massive," one of the soldiers stammered, stumbling backward as the heat washed over him.

Another guard dropped his spear with a clatter, eyes wide in terror. "What is the monster doing..."

Before he could finish, Shyvana roared again, a deep, earth-shaking bellow that rattled the very stones of the barracks. Windows cracked, banners tore from their poles, and the courtyard's fountain shattered, spraying boiling water across the cobblestones.

Darryl's heart pounded in his chest, each beat drowned by the rolling echo of that roar. Even from where he stood, the sound pressed against his bones, heavy and alive.

Beyond the walls, in the city below, civilians froze where they stood. A merchant's cart overturned as a frightened horse bolted down the street. Nobles rushed to their homes. Mothers clutched their children and looked toward the distant plume of flame rising over the keep. The roar had carried across entire districts, shaking glass and stirring panic.

"Is it an attack?" a noble cried as bells began to toll in alarm.

Back in the courtyard, Asta stood motionless amidst the chaos, the black lightning still crackling faintly around him. His single wing flared once, scattering the dust and flame around his feet. His gaze never left the massive dragon before him.

Darryl swallowed hard, feeling both awe and dread twist in his chest. "Captain… are you really going to fight that?" he whispered, though his voice barely carried over the crackle of fire.

Asta didn't answer. He simply smiled, maddeningly sure of himself.

Then, as Shyvana reared back, her molten chest swelling with the breath of her next inferno, Asta finally begun to move.

Unlike before, when he danced around his opponents with blinding speed, Asta moved slowly this time, deliberately. His stance lowered, muscles tightening as he drew his sword back into a wide, deliberate swing.

Shyvana's molten eyes flared. With a snarl that shook the air, she lunged forward and unleashed a torrent of dragonfire. The flames poured out in a blazing stream, swallowing Asta completely.

Darryl's eyes widened in horror as the mage disappeared within the inferno. "Asta!" he shouted, his voice cracking against the roar of fire.

Beside him, Tianna Crownguard did not flinch. Her sharp gaze narrowed, her voice calm and cutting through the chaos. "Surely it couldn't be that simple."

Then...

Whoosh!

The torrent of flames split apart in an instant, dividing cleanly down the middle like a river forced aside by an unseen hand. A thunderous shockwave erupted from within, slicing outward in a blinding arc of pressure.

The force slammed into Shyvana's colossal frame. The Dragoness roared in pain as she was hurled backward, crashing through the walls of the training grounds in an explosion of stone and fire. Debris rained down, smoke billowing high into the air.

"High Marshal!" one of the guards shouted, rushing to Tianna's side. "We have to get you out of here! They're destroying everything!"

Tianna sighed, brushing dust from her pauldrons as she watched the scene unfold. Her tone was cool, almost bored. "That won't be necessary," she said. "Stones can be rebuilt after all."

"He's right, High Marshal," Garen said as he stepped beside her, one hand resting on the hilt of his greatsword. His eyes stayed fixed on the blazing chaos ahead. "It's getting dangerous."

Tianna didn't move. Her gaze remained steady on the battlefield, her tone calm but edged with command. "You would have me flee in fear? From mages?"

Garen's jaw tightened, though he said nothing. The heat from Shyvana's flames rippled through the air, distorting the edges of their armor.

Jarvan, standing slightly behind them, crossed his arms and gave a faint, knowing smile. "I doubt we're in any real danger," he said evenly. "Shyvana's in control of herself. If she wanted to, she could turn this entire castle into rubble in seconds."

Tianna's eyes narrowed slightly at that, the flicker of a smirk tugging at her lips. "Let's hope she doesn't decide to prove you right," she replied, her voice steady even as another explosion of fire and lightning lit the sky before them.

The High Marshal's calm demeanor contrasted sharply with the chaos unfolding before them. Smoke curled through the air, mingling with the shimmer of residual magic. The once-pristine training ground now resembled a warzone, cracked stone, smoldering banners, and the faint, acrid scent of scorched steel.

From beyond the wall of dust, a low rumble echoed, a growl that made the ground tremble. Shyvana pushed herself upright, molten breath hissing from her jaws as rubble fell from her wings. Her crimson scales glowed brighter than ever, molten light flowing like veins of lava beneath her skin.

And across from her, standing amidst the crater that had once been the courtyard's center, was Asta.

His clothes were pristine, even with smoke rising from his shoulders. The black lightning still crackled faintly around him, dancing across his sword's edge. His one black wing extended behind him, dark and heavy against the light of the flames.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Asta tilted his head slightly, his grin widening as he raised his sword once more. "Your flames are pretty hot. Maybe hotter than Magna's." he said, his voice cutting clearly through the haze.

Shyvana's answer came as a deep growl that rippled the air itself.

The impact shattered the air. Asta's blade, wreathed in black lightning, met Shyvana's claws in a spray of sparks and molten scales.

Shyvana lost that contest nearly instantly as her claw was pushed back with greater force. The shockwave rippled outward, hurling dust and debris into the stands where soldiers scrambled to shield their faces.

Darryl stumbled back, barely managing to stay upright as the ground cracked beneath his boots. He could hardly follow their movements, one moment they were on the ground, the next a stteam of fire followed a black streak of lightning into the sky.

The heavens lit up. Shyvana's dragon fire carved glowing trails through the clouds, trying to burn Asta with her breath.

"By the Light…" Garen muttered, his voice low with awe. "He's faster than the silver wings."

Tianna crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. "He is far more dangerous than I thought. We cannot allow him to turn to Sylas under any circumstances. If he were to ally with the Dregbourne traitor Sylas. Make no mistake. Demacia may very well fall."

As if to prove her point, Asta dove, a black comet tearing through the air, his sword cutting a streak of red lightning. Shyvana countered with a roar that unleashed another torrent of flame, but this time he didn't dodge. Instead, he swung.

The slash cleaved through the inferno like a blade through silk, parting the flames and striking her square in the chest. The resulting explosion sent shockwaves racing across the city's outer walls.

When the light faded, Shyvana crashed to the ground in a storm of rubble, her massive body skidding through the remains of the courtyard. The shockwave knocked down what was left of the training barracks.

Darryl shielded his eyes from the dust, coughing as he stumbled forward. "Captain!" he called out.

Asta landed moments later, a heavy thud marking his return to the ground. His wing folded neatly behind him as he rested his sword on his shoulder, exhaling slowly. "That's enough," he said, his voice calm again, he said it with a finality that couldn't be rebutted. As if he knew that Shyvana could not continue fighting.

Shyvana shifted, her form shrinking, scales retreating and flame receding until the woman reappeared, kneeling, bruised, but still breathing hard, eyes blazing with stubborn pride.

Asta walked toward her, lowering his sword. "You're tough," he said, offering his hand to help her up. "But you have no idea how to fight someone faster than you, do you? Back home you'd be a sitting duck."

Shyvana glared at him for a long second before finally taking the offered hand. "You could have killed me. At any given moment. Compared to you, I'm weak."

Asta smirked, resting his sword across his shoulder as the wind stirred the smoke around them. "There's no crime in being weak, my friend," he said, his voice steady but carrying an edge of conviction. "But staying weak? That's the real crime. Someone I looked up to once told me that."

Shyvana's molten eyes narrowed as she straightened to her full height, embers spilling from her scales like sparks from a forge. "Then show me," she challenged, her voice echoing like distant thunder. "Show them." She gestured toward the gathered soldiers and spectators who stood frozen at the edges of the ruined courtyard.

Asta's expression softened into a grin. "I still remember when the former Wizard King did something just like this," he said almost nostalgically, lowering his sword. "He stood before the us that day and spoke to us. Showed us."

The crowd fell utterly silent. Even the flames around Shyvana seemed to quiet as Asta's tone shifted, earnest, commanding.

"Listen closely," he began. "The title of Wizard King isn't something you earn with praise or position. Some believe it's about pride… or the trust of the people. But they're wrong." He looked up, eyes gleaming beneath the crackle of black lightning. "It's about merit."

Shyvana tilted her head, a faint growl rumbling in her chest, confused, yet intrigued.

"You can't protect anyone with pride," Asta continued. "And trust… trust is something you gain through merit. There's only one thing people truly want from a leader, from the Wizard King." He raised his blade, lightning crawling up its edge. "Merit. The strength to keep winning, to keep protecting, no matter what stands in your way. Merit that proves that you are the best."

"Gain merit," he finished. "Continuously gain merit, that's everything. Anyone who can't do that will never stand at the top."

By now, every eye in the courtyard was locked on him. Soldiers, guards, even nobles peering from the shattered balconies above, all were silent, captivated by the foreign mage whose words burned just as fiercely as his power.

Asta wasn't finished. Slowly, he lifted his sword, the movement deliberate and steady, the black lightning crawling up the blade like living veins of shadow. "Now watch closely," he said, his voice carrying through the ruined courtyard with calm authority. "This..." his gaze flicked toward Shyvana, then to the soldiers and nobles who still lingered "...is only a fraction of the power you'll need to surpass on your journey."

He raised the blade higher until it pointed directly toward the heavens. Then, before their eyes, the weapon began to change.

The massive greatsword started to grow, first doubling in length, its edges crackling with crimson sparks. The hum of power deepened, resonating through the stone beneath their feet. Gasps rippled through the crowd as the weapon swelled beyond human scale, already towering higher than two grown men.

But it didn't stop there.

Shyvana instinctively stepped back as the sword continued its ascent. Within moments, the blade was level with her dragon form, an impossible, sky-splitting construct of black metal and lightning.

Still, the sword kept growing.

A shadow fell across Tianna where she stood, her sharp eyes tracking upward. For the first time that day, the High Marshal felt something stir in her chest, an instinctive step backward, driven not by fear, but awe.

Across the city, the people of Demacia froze where they stood. Nobles, merchants, guards, and civilians alike turned their eyes skyward as the sunlight dimmed. The cobbled streets and white stone walls darkened beneath an expanding shadow that rolled across rooftops like a passing storm.

When they looked up, they saw it, the sky itself shrouded by a colossal wall of black, a blade so vast that it seemed to divide the heavens.

"Winged Protector… protect us," someone whispered, voice trembling in the silence that followed.

Above, the clouds swirled violently as Asta's sword pierced them, its edge vanishing into the roiling gray. The energy in the air shifted, heavy and electric. Black lightning burst across the sky, arcing through the clouds in jagged lines that raced across all of Valoran.

The heavens trembled. The world itself seemed to hold its breath.

And at the center of it all stood Asta, unmoved, his single black wing unfurled behind him, the massive sword of anti-magic in his hands, drinking in the light of the sun. "This is what it means to be the Wizard King. The power to single-handedly protect your country without fail. And the power, to destroy another."

---

Runeterra stirred that day. From the frozen peaks of the Freljord to the burning sands of Shurima, powers both mortal and divine turned their gaze eastward, toward the unnatural storm of black lightning tearing across the sky.

A foreign energy pulsed from the heart of Demacia, wild and unfamiliar, unlike any magic the world had felt before. It throbbed like a living heartbeat, sending ripples through the leylines of Runeterra itself.

Far above the clouds, atop the sacred summit of Mount Targon, a woman with violet skin and a single horn upon her brow lifted her eyes toward the horizon. The enormous, obsidian blade pierced through the heavens, visible even from that great distance. The celestial winds howled around her as her expression hardened.
"What… is that?" Soraka asked no one in particular.

Across the continent, deep within the Immortal Bastion, the throne room of Noxus was bathed in shadow. There, the Pale Lady watched the phenomenon unfold within a mirror of crimson glass. The corners of her mouth curved upward in faint amusement.

"Such chaos," she mused, her many reflections whispering the words back in eerie unison. "How… intriguing. This could be useful."

From Ionia's tranquil gardens to Zaun's restless depths, seers, scholars, and monsters alike felt it, a foreign will cutting into the fabric of the world.

And in the silence that followed, a single truth became clear to all who sensed it.

A new piece had entered the board.

 

[trashtaker]

Him meeting Pantheon would be so peak

 

[ThePoroKing]

The goat

 

[SaberGlory]

High Marshal Crownguard did not sigh easily. Sighing meant that the weight she carried had finally pressed hard enough to reach her heart, that the calm steel she wore so naturally had bent, even if just slightly.

Across from her, her nephew stood at attention, posture straight and composed as ever, waiting for her to speak.

Tianna found the moment almost ironic. Just a few moons ago, she had scolded Garen for working himself to exhaustion, insisting that even the strongest soldier needed rest.

Now, as she studied his expression, that same quiet concern she once wore for him, she realized he was about to say the very same thing to her.

High Marshal Crownguard did not sigh easily. Yet Tianna leaned back into her chair, exhaling a long, weary breath that seemed to carry the weight of the entire kingdom with it. The sound alone was enough to make Garen blink in surprise.

Without a word, he moved to the chair opposite her and sat down, the heavy plate of his armor creaking softly. "Aunt Tianna," he began, his voice gentle, the edge of command gone, replaced by something far more familiar. For a brief moment, the Sword-Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard was gone, and in his place sat her nephew once more.

"Demacia has never been in a more precarious position than it is right now," Tianna said, leaning forward and lacing her fingers together atop the desk. Her voice was composed, but the tension behind it was unmistakable. This was no time to show fatigue.

"She has always prevailed, Aunt Tianna," Garen replied almost immediately, his tone firm, his posture unshaken. "Strength through discipline."

A faint smile touched Tianna's lips despite herself. Pride stirred in her chest as she looked at the young man before her. Garen had grown so much. "Honor through diligence," she answered softly, completing the old Crownguard creed.

Garen straightened even more, his gauntlets resting neatly on his knees. "What are your orders, High Marshal?"

Tianna nodded once, turning her attention to the stack of documents scattered across the desk, maps, reports, casualty lists. She gathered them with practiced precision, her expression sharpening as she spoke.

"We currently face major threats on three fronts," she began, her tone crisp and measured. "That's not even counting the riots breaking out across several provinces."

Garen frowned, leaning slightly forward as she continued.

"The traitor, Sylas of Dregbourne, is still amassing followers for his rebellion. He remains at large, and several Mage-Seeker laboratories have already fallen to his raids. From our reports, the mages rescued from those facilities are the very ones swelling his ranks."

A flash of distaste crossed Garen's face. "Is it odd that I'm not as worried about those labs?" he asked, his voice low, edged with disgust. "I've heard what they do to the mages they drag inside."

Tianna's gaze lingered on him, searching for something, before she finally spoke. "You're not wrong to feel that way," she admitted quietly. "Eldred has grown far too ambitious since His Majesty's demise. The MageSeekers hold more influence than ever, too much, if you ask me. And Eldred has the prince's ear. Unless Jarvan IV decides to strip them of that power…" She trailed off, her tone edged with frustration.

Garen's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "We never should have let things get this bad," he said grimly. "Even Uncle Eldred has to see that things are spiraling out of control."

Tianna shook her head, the faintest trace of weariness flickering behind her calm exterior. "Speaking of him will get us nowhere. You know as well as I do that Eldred will not stop. So long as the MageSeekers appear indispensable, he'll only grow bolder."

She leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. "No, the true problem lies elsewhere. Unless Prince Jarvan finally stops playing the tyrannical heir and takes the crown, this paralysis will continue. Demacia cannot afford such a ruler."

Garen looked down, his voice lowering. "I've tried to make him see reason. But I've yielded no results."

"As expected," Tianna said, her tone softening slightly. "Even with the half-dragon by his side, he still can't set aside his prejudice. He listens, but he doesn't hear."

She reached for another folder among the neatly stacked documents and slid it across the desk toward him. "And that brings us to the second issue, one that feeds off the first. Noxus."

Garen's brow furrowed as he picked up the report.

"They've been testing our borders more frequently," Tianna continued. "The skirmishes have since grown larger, more probing attacks. Assassinations. As you can attest, they've grown bolder." Her eyes flicked to him. "How many of the Dauntless Vanguard did we lose this time? Thirteen?"

"Twelve, High Marshal," Garen corrected quietly.

"...Twelve," Tianna repeated, her voice heavy. "Even one is too many. We're spread thin. Between Sylas's rebellion festering in the country and Noxian aggression to the west, Demacia cannot afford a civil war."

The High Marshal pushed the final document toward him. Its seal was still broken from earlier that morning. Garen glanced down, and a single word written in bold ink greeted him.

Asta.

The room seemed to grow heavier.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The distant toll of a bell echoed faintly through the hall outside, its somber chime cutting through the silence.

At last, Tianna folded her hands together atop the table, her expression unreadable.

"This," she said quietly, "is our main problem."

Garen's eyes flicked up to meet hers.

'How ironic,' Tianna thought as she studied her nephew's face, so resolute, so disciplined, yet still so young. 'Noxus knocks at our gates. Sylas and his rebels edge closer to civil war... and yet the greatest threat to Demacia's stability is a single man.'

"His… display yesterday has stirred quite a bit of unrest within the city," Tianna said at last, her tone weary. She pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose as if to ease a headache. "If I'm being honest with you, Garen, I regret ever requesting that demonstration."

Garen remained silent, his armored fingers brushing over the edge of the parchment as he opened the document she had handed him. The soft rustle of paper filled the brief silence between them.

He began to read, line after line, his expression stoic at first, then slowly shifting. When his eyes stopped on a particular passage, they widened slightly. "High Marshal?"

Tianna's gaze flicked toward him, immediately recognizing the page. 'He's found the order,' she thought amusedly. Pushing herself up from her chair, she moved toward the tall arched window, sunlight cutting a pale line across her face.

"Garen," she began, her voice measured, "tell me, what do you think would happen if a fight were to break out between Demacia and Asta? What would the outcome be?"

Garen closed the folder and set it down on the table. He stood, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the floor. "I could never imagine Demacia falling to any foe," he said firmly. "No matter how powerful."

Tianna turned slightly, one brow arched. "So, you believe we would win?"

He nodded once. "Without a doubt." A short pause followed. "…But..."

"It would cost us too much," Tianna finished for him, her gaze turning hard. "Demacia would be left vulnerable. A war with that young man, even if we triumphed, would leave us gutted."

She looked back out the window, her reflection faint against the glass. "The power to defend an entire kingdom alone, or to reduce another to ash. That is what it means to hold the title of Wizard King."

Garen gave a quiet, almost reluctant chuckle. "He has a very idealistic view of that title."

"They always do," Tianna replied, a faint smirk tugging at her lips before it quickly faded. "I was no different, once. But idealism isn't our concern here. Asta is."

Garen's blue eyes narrowed slightly. "You want me to befriend him."

Tianna finally turned fully toward him, her cloak whispering against the stone floor. "Not want," she said quietly. "Need."

"Asta is a dangerous element," Tianna said quietly, eyes cold as flint. "One we must handle with the utmost care. His power is too great to let him fall into the wrong hands." She turned on Garen with sudden intensity. "We need him on our side at all costs. If Eldred stands in the way, I'll see him brought to heel, by force if necessary."

Garen bowed his head in understanding. "As you command, High Marshal."

Tianna's posture softened just enough as she laid a gloved hand on his shoulder. "You've spoken with him. From what little you gleaned, you should know his character."

"He's a good man," Garen answered, steady and sure. The simple affirmation seemed to land with satisfying weight.

For the first time that morning, a genuine smile touched Tianna's lips, very rare. "Good." She straightened. "I spoke with Fiora earlier. I plan to have her meet with Asta."

Garen's eyes went wide at the suggestion. "Aunt Tianna, are you certain?"

Tianna's smirk was teasing and oddly maternal. "I have a feeling they'll be… perfect together. Can you think of a better suitor for her?"

Garen let out a groan, picturing the upheaval. "I... Understand High Marshal."

"And Asta's request?" he asked, returning to business.

Tianna turned back to the window and watched the white city gleam in the sunlight, the marble streets like a promise and a threat all at once. "I've forwarded the recommended course of action to Prince Jarvan IV." She tapped the largest document on the table, official orders and stipulations, neatly sealed.

Garen picked up the paper, scanning the lines. A slow, pleased smile spread across his face. "Imagine if Lux were to hear this," he said softly. "She'd burst with happiness."

Tianna allowed herself one small, indulgent chuckle before her expression closed again, all marshal and duty. "Let her be happy then. We have work to do."

---

'How did I get here?'

Cithria had asked herself that question a thousand times this morning alone.

She stood stiffly behind her Sword-Captain, hands clasped behind her back, as he sat upon a small wooden stool before a low table. Across from him, on an equally modest seat, was the foreign mage, Asta.

Even now, just seeing him sent a shiver through her. The memory of that day still haunted her dreams, the day when the heavens themselves seemed to split. She had never felt so small before a single man.

Cithria had witnessed power beyond comprehension, power that defied even Demacia's most disciplined order. And she wasn't alone. Every soul in the kingdom had seen it, the massive sword that hung above them all.

Not above a city.

Not above a region
.
All of Demacia had been beneath that colossal blade.

'At least, that's what the Raptor Knights reported afterward,' Cithria thought, both grim and awed. 'If such a weapon were ever to fall… half the kingdom would vanish in an instant.'

And then there were his words, words that still echoed in her mind. 'A Wizard King.' The title had sounded like arrogance at first, until she'd seen what he was capable of.

Cithria shifted uneasily, forcing herself not to move her weight to her right foot, a nervous habit that her superiors often scolded her for. She watched as her captain, Garen Crownguard, studied the smooth stones laid out between them.

Asta leaned forward with boyish energy, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Boast," he declared with confidence.

Garen's lips curved into an amused smile. "Are you certain?"

On the short table lay a small rectangular blue mat. Resting neatly atop it were six smooth, flat white stones arranged in a single row.

Asta leaned forward, narrowing his eyes in thought. His gaze flicked between the stones with surprising focus for someone who'd only just learned the game.

'Probably trying to make sure he remembers which stones are which,' Cithria thought, quietly observing the exchange.

After a long pause, Asta gave a firm nod. "I am."

Garen smiled faintly. "Alright then, point to you."

Asta blinked, momentarily thrown off. Then he pouted, a comical expression that looked oddly natural on his otherwise rugged, confident face. "Aww, come on! You're not gonna challenge my boast? I might be wrong, you know."

Garen's low chuckle filled the quiet room. "Probably," he admitted, amusement dancing in his tone. "But I'd rather not crush you too quickly. You're still learning, after all."

Cithria felt her lips twitch upward before she quickly straightened her expression. Her Sword-Captain was right, Asta was still a complete novice at Tellstones. He'd only learned the rules a few minutes ago.

Garen's gauntleted fingers moved with easy confidence as he shifted one of the white stones on the mat. "My turn, then," he said, tone measured, but there was the faintest spark of playfulness in his eyes.

Asta leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching every motion like a hawk studying its prey. The blue mat reflected faintly in his eyes as he tried to read Garen's next move.

"Memory," Garen declared, tapping the farthest stone.

Asta squinted at it, lips pursed. "That one was… Honor."

Garen's smile widened. "Courage," he corrected, flipping the stone over to reveal the small carved symbol beneath. "You're close, though."

Asta groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. "I was so sure!"

"You have to think like a soldier, not a gambler," Garen said calmly. "Tellstones is about discipline, seeing what's there, and what's not. Everything on the board has a place, even the empty space."

Asta nodded slowly, though his brow remained furrowed. "Right. So a complicated guessing game."

"if that's how you see it," Garen said, his smile turning approving. "Your move."

Asta exhaled and placed a hand on one of the stones, muttering to himself under his breath. "Hmmn…" Then, in a sudden burst of confidence, he raised his head. "Challenge!"

Cithria barely managed to stop herself from sighing aloud. She could see Garen's shoulders tense ever so slightly, he'd heard that same reckless confidence before, usually from new recruits who thought bravery could substitute for patience.

"Oh? Which one?" Garen asked, amusement creeping into his tone.

"Center stone!" Asta grinned, pointing to the center stone.

"Duty." Garen tapped his chin, pretending to consider. Then he reached forward, flipped the stone, and revealed the tiny carving beneath it.

"Duty," he said simply.

Asta slumped. "Ah, come on!"

Garen laughed quietly. "That's two points for me."

Asta crossed his arms, leaning back with a mock pout. "You sure this isn't rigged for Demacians?"

"If it were," Garen replied smoothly, "you wouldn't have scored the first point."

Cithria bit the inside of her cheek to hide her grin. Seeing the Sword-Captain actually teasing someone felt strange, almost unreal. Only the members of the Vanguard could draw that kind of reaction from him.

Asta leaned back in, renewed determination flashing in his eyes. "Alright then. No holding back. This time, I'll win."

Garen raised an eyebrow, resting his chin lightly on his fist. "Your confidence is admirable, if misplaced. Go ahead."

Three more turns passed in steady rhythm, stone, word, memory, and misstep. Each time Asta grew more animated, his energy almost infectious, though his accuracy… less so.

When the final move came, Asta slapped his palm against the mat. "That one's Justice!"

Garen turned the stone over.

The symbol for Pride gleamed faintly in the light.

Silence lingered for a beat before Asta let out a dramatic sigh. "I think this game hates me."

Garen chuckled, sitting back. "Four turns. A fair match, for your first true round."

Asta grinned despite his loss, a spark of stubborn optimism in his eyes. "Guess that means next time, I'll win in three."

Cithria couldn't help it, this time, she smiled openly.

A small huff of breath drew Cithria's attention away from the table. Her gaze shifted toward the open courtyard beyond the veranda, where a young boy was still running laps under the morning sun.

Darryl.

The child's movements were uneven but determined, his boots striking the stone with a steady rhythm that echoed faintly through the estate grounds. Sweat clung to his brow, his breaths coming sharp and quick. By Cithria's count, this was his seventeenth lap. Quite impressive, she thought, for someone his age.

Her eyes lifted to the walls surrounding the courtyard. A few guards stood stationed there, silent and watchful as always. But among them, she recognized several wearing the half masks and the white-and-silver insignia of the MageSeekers. Their attention wasn't on the horizon or the gate. It was fixed squarely on the boy.

Cithria's jaw tightened. She didn't need to guess what they were thinking.

Fortunately for Darryl, their hands were tied.

Not after the two royal decrees that had been issued nearly a month ago. Not after he had changed everything.

---
By will of the Crown and consent of the High Marshal, Asta of Clover shall henceforth serve as Emissary Extraordinary to the Court of Demacia, empowered to act in counsel, in demonstration, and in the defense of the realm under royal sanction.
His presence shall not be deemed that of a foreign soldier, but of a friend and ally whose deeds shall bring honor to both Demacia and his homeland.
---
Decree of Mutual Accord and Magical Stewardship

> By authority of the Crown and the will of the High Marshal, the Kingdom of Demacia recognizes Asta of Clover as an Emissary Extraordinary to the Crown and Ally of the Realm. In this accord, the Clover Kingdom shall stand as friend and defender of Demacia in times of peril, and Asta shall, by royal sanction, oversee the instruction and moral guidance of select mages within Demacian borders, that their gifts may serve the light rather than threaten it. Their number shall remain under his supervision, and their conduct bound by Demacian law.
Thus, through diligence and discipline, may even power once feared be turned to virtue, for the strength of Demacia and the peace of her people.
---

With those decrees, Asta had suddenly become one of the most important figures in all of Demacia.

It was, as Morn would have said, a right mess.

Cithria could hardly make sense of the political whirlwind that followed, the endless meetings, the whispered debates in the courtyards, the sudden tension between the MageSeekers and the Crown. But she did understand why the High Marshal and the prince had chosen this path.

Asta was powerful. It was that simple. Better he stand beside them as an ally than against them as an enemy.

Still, things had only grown more complicated after Sword-Captain Garen announced that he would be visiting Asta regularly, and that he intended to take one of the Vanguard with him.

That was when Morn, ever so helpfully, had mentioned that Cithria herself had already spoken with the foreign mage.

Cithria had nearly choked on her drink at that. She respected Morn, truly, the healer had saved her life more than once, but in that moment, she wanted to stab her with every one of Hess' many, many blades.

'He barely said five words to me that one time,' she thought bitterly, watching as Garen smiled, calmly rearranging the small mat and returning the smooth stones to their places.

Cithria tipped her head back, letting her gaze follow the sun as it climbed higher into the sky.

'Seriously,' she sighed inwardly. How did I end up here?

-----

Rules of Tell Stones

The game is played on a small mat ("the Line") with a set of uniquely‐symbolled stones placed beside it (the "Pool").

Players take turns doing one of several actions: placing a stone from the Pool into the Line, hiding (flipping) a face-up stone, swapping two stones, peeking at a face‐down stone, or attempting to score.

To score, you can either Challenge (point at a face-down stone and ask the opponent to name it; if they fail you score, if they succeed they do) or Boast (claim you know all the face-down stones and either your opponent gives you the point or you must prove it).

The first player to a set number of points (usually three) wins.

There's an added element of memory, bluffing and misdirection, players watch not only the stones but each other.

 

[trashtaker]

Now I want Fiora and Magna to meet and fight.

The strongest commoner "common person cause Asta isn't common at all) vs the strongest noble duelist

 

[SaberGlory]

"Alright, Darryl. You'll get your first mission as a Black Bull today. Aren't you excited?"

Darryl was, in fact, not excited. His legs flailed helplessly as he hung in the air, gripped by the head in his Captain's iron hand. "My head's going to explode, Captain!" he groaned.

Asta raised an eyebrow. "That's not an answer. I just said you're getting your first mission."

"Excited!" Darryl blurted out in a panic as he felt Asta's grip tighten around his skull. "I'm excited, Captain! Totally excited! What even is the mission?"

Asta grinned, though he didn't release him. "That's the spirit. We'll start small. Apparently, there've been sightings of Gromps near Meltridge."

He gave Darryl a casual shake, which meant the boy's entire body swung like a ragdoll. "The little things look weak enough, so I guess you'll handle them."

"G-Gromps!?" Darryl stammered, eyes wide. "But squads of knights are required to fight those things! Even monster hunters don't take them on without a plan!"

"Where'd you hear that?" Asta asked, one brow rising in amusement.

"From the soldiers back home," Darryl said quickly. "They used to tell us stories whenever we weren't doing our chores."

"Good," Asta replied, dropping the boy unceremoniously onto the ground. Darryl landed with a thud and a small, pitiful ouch. "Then you know what to expect. Go pack what you need. We're leaving in a few."

"Didn't you hear me, Captain!?" Darryl shouted as he scrambled to his feet. "Gromps are tough! Their hides can deflect even the sharpest swords! The soldiers told us to run if we ever saw one!"

"Not as a Black Bull, you're not," Asta shot back with that trademark grin. His tone softened, but only a little. "And besides, how else are you going to push past your limits?"

Darryl froze when Asta's gaze locked on his. The young boy felt his heart hammer in his chest.

"You want to become strong, don't you?" Asta asked, voice calm but firm.

When Darryl managed a shaky nod, Asta smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. Go get your things. We don't want to keep the nice lady waiting."

---

Standing near the stone archway of Asta's courtyard, Cithria watched as the foreign mage cheerfully tossed his recruit around like a sack of potatoes. The boy, Darryl, she thought his name was, looked moments away from fainting.

"Is this really how foreign mages train their squires?" she muttered under her breath.

One of the guard beside her cleared his throat, but wisely said nothing.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting!" Asta's voice broke her train of thought. He approached with a broad grin, sunlight glinting off the strange sword strapped to his back. The boy trailed behind him, still rubbing his head. "This little trouble maker decided to take his sweet time."

Ignoring that she had just seen him fling little Darryl over twelve feet in the air a few minutes ago, Cithria straightened her posture instinctively. "Captain Asta," she greeted formally, giving a small bow. "The Crown appreciates your quick response to the notice."

Asta waved it off with a laugh. "Hey, no need for all that. And besides, how else is the kid going to learn? This looks like a perfect first mission for him. How is Garen by the way?"

Cithria's eyes were still wide open, even as she almost instinctively answered that her Sword-Captain was doing well. Instead she focused on the early part of the statement. "He... Is the one dealing with the Gromps?" her tone dangerously close to disbelief. "You do realize those creatures can crush a man in full armor, don't you?"

Asta tilted his head. "Then it's a good thing he's not wearing armor."

Cithria blinked. "That's not the point!" she took a deep breath.

Asta only grinned wider, his easy confidence completely unmoved by her protest. "Relax. I'll be there to watch over him. This is how we do things in the Black Bulls." He started walking toward the stables, waving for her to follow.

Darryl trailed after him, half-excited, half-terrified. "Captain, do I have to fight them? I don't even know what a Gromp looks like up close!"

Asta turned back with a laugh. "A little surprise in your life will do you good!"

Cithria sighed, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer to the winged protector. She followed the pair as they reached the horses tethered by the gate.

Asta patted the flank of a massive Demacian steed, clearly admiring its build. "Demacian craftsmanship really doesn't play around, huh? This thing looks like it could headbutt a flaming boar."

"Please don't test that theory, whatever a flaming boar is." Cithria said, swinging onto her own mount with practiced grace.

Asta only chuckled as he lifted Darryl by the collar and dropped him onto the smaller horse beside her. "You'll be fine, kid. Just try not to die. Trust your caption."

Darryl gripped the reins nervously. "You said that last time, Captain. We ended up breaking through three fences and a chicken coop!"

"Exactly," Asta said cheerfully. "Those chickens were delicious weren't they?"

"That's not the point!" Darryl yelled at his Captain and Cithria couldn't help but agree with the boy.

Asta just laughed harder as the three of them rode towards the entrance to the city.

---

The ride from the Great City to Meltridge had taken them the better part of a day. The sun now hung low over the plains, dyeing the grasslands gold as the foothills of the Graygate Mountains rose ahead.

Cithria tugged gently on Cloudfield's reins, guiding her trusted steed into a slow turn as the other two riders followed close behind. The air carried a crisp bite that hinted at the coming dusk, and the rhythmic thud of hooves against the dirt road filled the quiet between them.

She stole a brief glance over her shoulder and was mildly surprised to see Darryl handling his mount with practiced ease. Then again, he was Demacian. "His parents must have taught him." Most citizens spent at least three years serving in the military, long enough to pick up the fundamentals of horsemanship, swordsmanship, and discipline. It was part of what made Demacians so dependable, unyielding in both spirit and skill.

A thoughtful hum broke her train of thought.

Cithria tilted her head slightly, catching the mage's voice from behind.

"I get it now," Asta said, as though he'd just uncovered some grand secret.

Darryl glanced toward him. "Get what?"

The mage inhaled deeply, his expression twisting into frustrated despair. "That this..." he threw his hands up dramatically "...is the slowest method of transportation ever!"

Cithria couldn't help the small smile tugging at her lips as Asta groaned in frustration, glaring down at his horse as though it were the one personally offending him.

"Next time, Darryl," Asta said, pointing a gloved finger at his young charge, "we're flying here. Remind me to get you a broom when we get back."

Darryl blinked, tilting his head in confusion. "A broom? What do we need a broom for? And how are we supposed to use it to fly?" His eyes widened suddenly, lighting up with excitement. "Ooh! Are we getting a Silverwing?"

Asta grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "Just wait and see, Darryl. Your captain's about to blow your mind."

Cithria sighed softly, though amusement flickered across her expression. 'Brooms? What's he even talking about? And flying? Don't tell me he actually has a Silverwing hidden somewhere.'

"We're already here," she said, reining Cloudfield to a halt as the faint orange glow of dusk washed over the treetops ahead. "But it looks like night's coming sooner than expected. We'll secure lodging and continue at first light."

Ahead, the faint outline of Meltridge came into view, a modest town of stone and timber nestled at the base of the Graygate foothills. Evening light spilled over the rooftops, and lanterns were already flickering to life along the main road.

"Finally!" Asta exhaled, half relief, half impatience. "If I had to sit on this horse for another hour, I'd have started running instead."

"You probably should have," Darryl said dryly. "You'd have reached here faster."

Asta gave the boy a mock glare. "I might make you run laps back to the capital."

The road leveled out as they approached the stone archway that marked Meltridge's entrance. A pair of local guards stood watch, older men with well-worn tabards, looking more tired than alert. They straightened a little when they saw the insignia on Cithria's shoulder.

"Evening, Vanguard," one greeted, glancing briefly at Asta's foreign clothes. His tone carried curiosity more than suspicion. "You three traveling through or here on assignment?"

"On Crown business," Cithria replied simply, keeping her tone neutral. "We're looking into reports of Gromps near the outer ridge."

The guard's expression shifted at once. "Ah. That mess. You'll want the old barracks up the hill, Captain Rehn's in charge of the town watch. Not much of a night for scouting, though."

"We'll manage," Cithria said.

Asta waved cheerfully. "Thanks! Nice town you've got here!"

The guard blinked, caught off guard by the enthusiasm. "Er… sure," he muttered, stepping aside to let them pass.

Meltridge wasn't large, but it was alive, the air smelled faintly of burning oak and stew, and the sound of merchants closing their stalls echoed through the narrow streets. Children darted between doorways, while a few soldiers patrolled lazily near the square.

Just a few moons ago, this place was at the cusp of rebelling. Cithria tried to avoid the gazes of the villagers as she walked.

Last time she was here, she has made a promise to a very desperate woman. To find her daughter, who had been taken by MageSeekers, and bring her back to her.

It had been many moons since then. Cithria hadn't been back here since. 'What do I tell her if I run into her."

"People are staring," Darryl whispered.

"They've probably never seen anyone from Clover before," Cithria said.

"Maybe it's the muscles," Asta added, grinning as he waved at a group of wide-eyed children. Even flexing a few times.

A few women had swooned, and Cithria rolled her eyes.

"I doubt it," Cithria muttered, "Demacia isn't scarce in muscular men."

Asta looked over his shoulder and shrugged. "Fair point."

They stopped near the town square, where a small inn sat beside the well. Its windows glowed warmly, the faint hum of laughter spilling from inside.

"This'll do," Cithria said. "We'll get rooms for the night and head out at dawn. If the Gromps are nesting near the riverbanks, we'll need clear light to track them."

"Fine by me," Asta said as he swung off his horse. "As long as there's food."

Darryl slid off his mount more carefully. "Captain, maybe you shouldn't..."

But it was too late. Asta had already pushed through the inn door, his voice booming before he even reached the counter. "Evening! Three rooms and something to eat!"

Cithria rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Give me strength," she muttered under her breath.

When she followed him inside, the innkeeper, a middle-aged woman with the weary look of someone who'd seen too many adventures, was already setting out mugs.

'Ex soldier perhaps?' Cithria thought.

"...right." The woman nodded, her eyes flicking to the strange insignia on Asta's cloak.

Cithria hid her small smile as she moved past him to speak quietly with the innkeeper. "We'll be out before dawn," she said, placing a few coins on the counter. "If you have a stablehand, see that our horses are fed and watered."

The inn had been quiet after the rush of travelers settled in. Cithria retired early, preferring the stillness of her room to the raucous laughter drifting from the common area below, mostly courtesy of Asta, who seemed to make friends wherever he went, whether people wanted to or not.

By the time sleep claimed her, the sounds of the tavern had long faded, replaced by the steady whisper of the wind outside.

---

"Bleeurgh!" Cithria groaned, doubling over as she emptied the entirety of her breakfast into the grass, bread, and whatever was left of her dignity.

Beside her, Darryl wasn't faring any better. The boy was on his hands and knees, dry heaving with the kind of despair that only came from near-death experiences.

"There, there," Asta said cheerfully, crouching behind them as he patted both of their backs, far too enthusiastically for someone responsible for their current condition. "Let it all out."

"I hate you, Captain!" Darryl wheezed between gasps, and for once, Cithria felt she shared the sentiment completely.

They were justified too.

It had all started so simply that morning. After breakfast, Cithria had suggested meeting Captain Rehn to gather information on the Gromp sightings, a reasonable, disciplined plan.

Then Asta had said, "I already know where they are!" grabbed both her and Darryl by the shoulders, and before she could even ask how, the world had turned inside out.

The next thing she knew, they were plummeting through cold air, her stomach somewhere above her head, and the ground rushing up far too fast.

Now, they were here, deep within the forests that bordered the Graygate foothills.

The experience had been… jarring, to put it mildly.

"Better get used to this, Darryl," Asta said, arms crossed proudly as if he hadn't just defied several laws of nature. "Flying's the fastest way to travel."

"I would not," Cithria said through clenched teeth, wiping her mouth with the back of her glove, "call what you just did flying, Captain Asta."

Asta raised a brow, looking genuinely amused. "Oh? You called me captain that time. I sense that you're mad at me."

Darryl slumped against a tree trunk, still pale. "I'm angry too, Captain… really angry."

Asta scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. Maybe I should've waited before bringing the Gromp here."

Cithria froze mid-breath, her blood running cold. "...What did you just say?"

RIBBIT!!!

The sound reverberated through the forest, low, wet, and heavy. The ground beneath them shuddered as a massive shape moved beyond the trees, its croak echoing like rolling thunder.

Cithria slowly turned her head toward the noise, dread prickling down her spine.

Darryl whimpered. "...You didn't."

Asta grinned. "Your first mission begins now."

 

[SaberGlory]

Cithria couldn't help the sharp gasp that escaped her throat at the sight of the creature looming before them.

The Gromp was enormous, easily three meters tall, its slick, warty skin glistening in the faint morning light. Its bulbous eyes blinked once, slowly, before letting out a low, guttural ribbit that rattled the air.

"AHH! It's a monster!" Darryl screamed, scrambling backward in panic.

Cithria's instincts flared. Her hand shot to the hilt of her sword, already halfway through drawing the blade... and once again, the world blurred.

Her vision twisted, her stomach lurched, and before she could process what had happened, the ground was gone. The next instant, she was staring at the bark of a tree, no, she was on a tree, dozens of meters above the ground.

"Wha..?" The sound slipped out of her before she could stop it. A wave of vertigo crashed over her, and instinct took over. She dropped low, hugging the thick branch like her life depended on it.

"Are you gonna puke again?"

The voice made her flinch. She turned her head sharply to find Asta standing beside her, balanced easily on the same branch, arms crossed, as though they were having a casual chat on the ground.

He wasn't even winded.

Cithria took several steadying breaths, forcing her heartbeat back under control. "Why…" she managed between clenched teeth.

Asta grinned, unbothered by her glare. "Well, it's not your mission, is it?"

It took less than an instant for Cithria to understand what he meant, and it took even less time for her to realise that the two of them were the only ones on the branch.

Cithria turned her head downward, pushing through the sickening sense of vertigo, and her heart nearly stopped.

Below, on the forest floor, Darryl was sprinting for his life, his terrified screams echoing through the trees as the Gromp bounded after him, each heavy step shaking the ground.

---

Darryl was going to die, he just knew it. Every instinct in his body screamed it, even as his legs pumped furiously beneath him.

Boom!

The ground exploded behind him as the Gromp landed, the shockwave nearly knocking him off his feet. The monster's croak followed, a guttural, vibrating sound that made his bones rattle.

"Why me!?" he gasped, bursting through a thick brush. Branches whipped across his face and arms, leaving thin scratches that stung with sweat, but he didn't dare slow down.

He didn't even think about reaching for the short sword strapped to his hip. The idea of turning around, of fighting that thing, was pure insanity.

All he could do was run.

Each thunderous boom behind him marked another leap from the Gromp, closing the distance inch by inch. The earth trembled with every landing, the air thick with the creature's croaking bellows.

"This is insane!" Darryl shouted breathlessly as he vaulted over a fallen log. "This is murder!"

He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The shadow that swallowed the light behind him told him everything he needed to know.

---

"How long are you going to leave him like that?" Cithria asked, now steady enough not to tremble at the dizzying height.

She still wasn't entirely comfortable being so high up, but at least she could keep her balance now. From her vantage point, she watched as Darryl darted frantically through the trees below, running, turning, and somehow ending up in the same area again and again.

If he realized he was running in circles, she couldn't tell.

"I'll let him tire himself out first," Asta replied casually from behind her.

She turned toward him with a skeptical look. "And how exactly is that a good idea?"

Asta chuckled, his voice carrying that annoyingly confident tone. "Don't worry. The Gromp isn't going to catch him. Watch."

Before she could respond, a sharp rush of air brushed past her, Asta disappearing faster than her eyes could track.

Cithria blinked and glanced back toward the forest below. The Gromp lunged after Darryl, landing with thunderous force each time, but every near miss was somehow interrupted, its momentum stalling just before impact, giving Darryl a split second to slip away.

"Oh… so that's what he meant," she murmured.

"Exactly."

Cithria flinched. Asta was suddenly beside her again, as if he'd never moved.

"Now we just wait a few more minutes," he said, leaning lazily against the bark. "His stamina's gotten a lot better since he started training his body."

She followed his gaze downward. "He's still running in circles. How is that even possible?"

Asta laughed again, the sound far too amused for her liking. "Oh, that's me. I'm making sure he doesn't run too far from view."

Cithria frowned, noting how he still didn't answer the real question, how he was doing any of this.

Then, as if to change the subject entirely, Asta reached into thin air and pulled out a small leather bag. "So," he said cheerfully, shaking it, "wanna play a game of Tell Stones while we wait?"

Cithria really didn't like this man.

---

It took several minutes of frantic running before Darryl finally felt his legs begin to slow. His lungs burned, his chest heaved, and the only thing louder than his ragged breathing was the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Against his better judgment, he risked a glance over his shoulder.

The Gromp was still there, massive, hulking, and stubbornly persistent, but even it looked weary now. Its leaps had grown sluggish, its growls less fierce.

Darryl stared at it through the haze of exhaustion. The sheer terror that had gripped him earlier was gone, replaced by a hollow fatigue that weighed down his limbs and settled deep in his stomach.

"You got that out of your system?"

Darryl nearly jumped out of his skin. Captain Asta was standing right beside him as if he'd been there all along.

"C-Captain!" Darryl gasped, stumbling backward. "Save me! Why are you doing this?! Are you trying to kill me?! Just, just kill it already!"

Asta gave him a flat, unimpressed look and said nothing, simply waiting for Darryl to run out of breath, which, thankfully, didn't take long.

After a moment of heavy breathing and defeated sighs, Darryl slumped forward. "Okay… yeah. It's out of my system."

Asta's lips curled into a grin. "Good. Then we can finally start your first magic training exercise. Mana Reinforcement."

Darryl's exhaustion vanished in an instant, his eyes widening with excitement. "Really? You mean it?"

Asta laughed. "Of course, twerp. Now listen closely, I'm only going to say this once."

He crouched slightly, his tone turning almost instructional. "Mana is the source of all magic, every spell. It's the energy that flows inside you at all times, even when you're not aware of it. That little tingle you feel when casting spells? That's mana."

Darryl tilted his head. "So I... have mana? Isn't that just... Magic Power?"

Asta ignored the question entirely, continuing as if he hadn't heard him. "Now, instead of channeling that energy through your hands or whatever you used to cast spells, I want you to circulate it through your whole body, like blood in your veins. Let it flow from head to toe."

He stood up straight again, smirking. "That's pretty much it. Obviously there are steps in between, but you're a smart kid, you'll figure it out. Once you do, you'll find it much easier to deal with small fry like these, even if you can't kill them yet."

Before Darryl could respond, Asta vanished.

He blinked, looking left, then right, then left again. "...Captain?"

The only answer he got was the ground shaking behind him.

Boom!

Darryl turned just in time to see the Gromp lunge at him again.

"You piece of shit captain!" he yelled, taking off at full speed once more.

---

Cithria sighed, pressing her fingers against her temple as she watched from above. "He's going to collapse before he figures anything out," she muttered.

"Eh, he'll get it," Asta said without looking up from the Tell Stones mat he'd arranged neatly on the branch. He flicked one of the carved stones with his thumb. "Challenge. Far left."

Cithria gave him a flat stare. "Courage." She didn't even glance at the mat as she answered. "What makes you so sure?"

Asta frowned slightly. "You didn't even look that time." He tilted his head, conceding with a smirk. "Point to you, I guess." His gaze shifted to the forest floor below, where Darryl's frantic screams echoed between the trees. "And don't worry. He's stronger than he looks. He's not gonna die to something like this."

Right on cue, Darryl's voice rang out, shrill and panicked. "I'M GOING TO DIEEEEEE!"

Cithria winced as the boy tripped over a thick root, tumbled through the dirt, and somehow sprang back to his feet in the same motion. The Gromp landed behind him with a thunderous boom, the shockwave rattling the leaves and shaking a few loose branches from the trees.

"See?" Asta said, casually turning one of the Tell Stones face down. "He's already getting the hang of it."

Cithria arched an eyebrow, watching as Darryl darted through the clearing. To her surprise, he was starting to put distance between himself and the Gromp. His movements, while still clumsy, had rhythm now. He even had time to glance around for an escape route before the beast's next charge.

"I know you've been cutting the Gromp off," she said finally, narrowing her eyes. "You're intercepting it before it can reach him, aren't you?"

Asta tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Oh, that?" He sounded almost bored. "I stopped doing that a while ago."

Cithria blinked. "You what?"

He grinned, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. "You just can't tell because we're so high up. He's already reinforcing his body with mana." Asta let out a low whistle, half impressed, half disgusted. "It's only been a few minutes since he even heard of the spell. What a freak of nature. Gross."

Cithria stared at him, then back at Darryl, who somehow managed to leap over a rock and land without face-planting. The disbelief on her face slowly gave way to reluctant amazement.

Another thunderous boom shook the forest below. The Gromp landed hard, sending up a cloud of dirt. Darryl threw himself sideways, rolling behind a boulder just in time as the creature's tongue lashed out and smacked the stone instead, shattering it into chunks.

Cithria's breath caught. "That thing could've crushed him."

"He'll be fine. He's already gotten the first step and achieved Mana Reinforcement," Asta explained. "The next step is the fun part."

Cithria turned toward him. "Wait, what do you mean..."

She didn't get to finish. Asta vanished again, the air rippling slightly where he'd been.

---

Darryl looked up just in time to see Asta drop from a branch, landing with effortless grace between him and the creature. The Gromp's next lunge met open air, Asta had already moved, his foot connecting with the monster's chest in a brutal strike that sent it sprawling backward with a bone-shaking boom.

The shockwave blew Darryl's hair back. He stared, wide-eyed.

Asta straightened, brushing dust from his sleeve. "Well, you got Mana Reinforcement down. That's one limit surpassed."

Darryl's jaw dropped. "That thing almost ate me!"

Asta gave him a faint grin before glancing at the trembling Gromp. "Still, not bad for a first attempt. According to my friends, Mana Reinforcement usually takes days to even feel."

Darryl's breathing steadied as the last of the adrenaline settled into something else, focus. "It's weird," he admitted, flexing his fingers. "I can feel the magic... Err... mana moving… like it's part of me. Like I can tell it where to go."

Asta's grin widened. "That's good. Now use that magic to kill it."

Darryl blinked. "Wait, what?"

The captain's eyes flicked toward the recovering Gromp, whose guttural croak rose once more. "You've got ten seconds before it's back on its feet."

Darryl's stomach dropped. "Captain, maybe you could..."

"Nope." Asta folded his arms and vanished, his voice echoing. "This one's all you, kid."

The Gromp's eyes locked onto Darryl, fury bubbling in its throat. It lunged again.

Darryl cursed, then gritted his teeth. "Alright, fine! Come on then!"

This time, when Darryl forced his magic power, or mana, as Captain Asta called it, from his core into his body, the change was immediate.

The world sharpened. The air seemed lighter, sounds clearer. The Gromp ahead of him, which only moments ago had been a blur of teeth and motion, now moved slower, its every twitch and ripple visible.

Darryl's lips curved into a grin. "Awesome," he whispered under his breath. If this was how mages fought, no wonder Captain Asta could move faster than the eye could follow.

He drew his short sword with renewed confidence, the earlier fear gone from his eyes. "Alright, let's do this."

With a yell, he charged. "YAAAH!"

---

Cithria winced as Darryl's small frame bounced harmlessly off the Gromp's slick hide, sword and all.

"Oof. That's gotta hurt," Asta said with a chuckle, flicking one of the Tell Stones between his fingers. They were on their seventh game now. That was how long this mission/training had gone on.

Cithria turned to him with an exasperated sigh. "How much longer is this going to go on for? He's gotten slightly stronger, sure, but a Gromp's hide is still impervious to most blades."

She couldn't deny it, though, what Darryl had achieved was nothing short of impressive. A thirteen-year-old boy, moving faster and lasting longer than her comrades from back in the Ninth Battalion. His stamina was monstrous. The Gromp couldn't land a hit on him anymore, and even though his blade barely scratched its skin, he was relentless.

They were locked in a strange rhythm now, an odd stalemate. The Gromp lunged and missed while Darryl struck and bounced off. Again and again.

Asta leaned back lazily against the trunk, smirking. "He's a Black Bull. He'll surpass his limits."

Cithria groaned. "Don't you have any spells that could help him end this already? I'm getting tired of sitting here and beating you at Tell Stones."

"Beating me?" Asta arched an eyebrow, glancing at the board. "You've been lucky, that's all."

She shot him a glare.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. But seriously, there's not much I can do for him right now. I'm not an earth mage, I'm an Anti Magic mage. Apart from the general spells anyone can use, most of what I do would just cancel his magic out."

"So you're useless," she deadpanned.

Asta grinned. "Pretty much."

Then, his tone shifted, a touch more serious. "Even if I could help, it's better this way. He doesn't have the mana for complex stuff like Mana Skin yet, and using something like Mana Bullet would just drain him dry. What he needs is to use what he's got. His own earth magic spell."

He nodded toward the clearing below, where Darryl was once again charging the Gromp with reckless determination.

"Better he learns that spell here," Asta said quietly, "in a place I can control, than out there, where he's in actual danger."

Cithria watched the boy duck another crushing strike and come up grinning, sweat glistening on his forehead, eyes burning with stubborn resolve.

It took four more games of Tell Stones before Darryl finally did something worth noticing.

Cithria's eyes widened as the ground beneath the Gromp suddenly rippled, softening into loose earth that swallowed the massive frog-like creature up to its belly. The beast croaked furiously, thrashing and kicking as the soil hardened again, trapping it in place.

"Well, I'll be damned," Cithria muttered. "He actually did it."

"Finally! A spell!" Asta whooped from across the branch, throwing his hands up in triumph. "Thank the gods! Tell Stones suck! This game is rigged against me!"

Cithria gave him a flat look but didn't bother responding. Her attention stayed on Darryl below, who was panting hard as he approached the struggling Gromp. His short sword looked battered, its edge chipped and dulled from the repeated, futile strikes earlier, but he still gripped it with fierce determination.

"The Gromp's weak spot is its soft underbelly," Cithria observed, thinking aloud. "But with it buried like that, he won't be able to reach it. He'll have to release it and strike fast before it attacks again."

Asta leaned forward, his grin returning. "Or…"

Before she could ask what he meant, Darryl raised his sword and drove it straight into the Gromp's eye.

The creature let out a guttural, bubbling croak, thrashing wildly before going still.

"…he could stab it in the eye," Asta finished, barely containing his laughter.

Cithria sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Or he could stab it in the eye," she echoed dryly.

Asta laughed outright this time, the sound echoing through the treetops. "He's a natural!"

Cithria rose from the branch, brushing the dust from her trousers. "At least it's over," she muttered, casting one last glance at the fallen Gromp. "Now get me down from here."

Asta smirked as he casually gathered the Tell Stones and tucked them back into their leather pouch. "Well… he still has six more to go."

Cithria nearly lost her balance, whipping around so fast she almost slipped off the branch. "What did you just say?"

"There's, like, six more of them down by the river," Asta said with that same infuriating grin, already stepping closer.

Before she could yell at him, he wrapped an arm around her waist and stepped off the branch.

The world blurred into a rush of color and wind, and Cithria wished she could punch this infuriating man in the face.

 

[ThePoroKing]

Finally yuh

 

[SaberGlory]

Cithria exhaled slowly as she stepped into the courtyard, her boots clicking softly against the cobblestone. The air was cool and heavy with the faint mist of early dawn, the hour when most of the fortress still slept.

She was here to give her report, two long days spent under the watch of that infuriating foreign mage, Asta. 'The despic...' she stopped herself mid-thought, forcing her expression into one of composure.

Halfway through her stride, she froze.

Standing where she'd expected her Sword-Captain to be was indeed Garen Crownguard, massive, commanding, and already clad in full field plate despite the ungodly hour. His presence alone was enough to make most knights stand straighter.

But it wasn't him that made her hesitate.

Beside him stood a second figure, tall, poised, and unmistakable. The High Marshal of Demacia herself, Tianna Crownguard.

Cithria's pulse quickened.

Her mind immediately began to race. Why was the High Marshal here at this hour? Why now?

She forced her legs to move again, her armour whispering with each step. A flicker of gratitude passed through her that she'd chosen to don it before coming, standing before both of them unarmoured would've felt... improper.

Still, the knot in her stomach only tightened as she approached.

Cithria came to a halt a few paces away and bowed deeply, keeping her posture straight despite the unease curling in her chest.

"Reporting as ordered, Sword-Captain," she said, her voice steady, if a little tight. "Cithria of Cloudfield, returning from field assignment."

Garen gave a short nod, arms crossed over his chestplate. His blue cloak swayed slightly in the morning breeze. "At ease, Cithria. You're earlier than expected."

"I didn't sleep much," she admitted before she could stop herself.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Garen's mouth, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He stepped aside, gesturing toward the woman standing beside him.

Cithria shifted her gaze to Tianna Crownguard, the High Marshal herself. Even in the dim light, the woman's presence filled the courtyard. Her silver hair was braided neatly over one shoulder, her posture impeccable, her eyes sharp and unreadable.

Cithria immediately went to one knee, her fist pressed over her heart. "High Marshal," she greeted, lowering her head.

"Rise, Cithria of Cloudfield," Tianna said, her tone calm but commanding. "This isn't a formal court. I've heard tales of your time as one of the Dauntless Vanguard from Garen here. All good ones too, that's commendable."

Cithria straightened, her heart still hammering despite Tianna's even tone. "Thank you, ma'am."

The High Marshal studied her for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing something. "You were sent to accompany the foreign mage?"

"Yes, ma'am," Cithria replied, already sensing where this was going. "By Captain Garen's orders."

Tianna folded her hands behind her back. "Good. Then you can tell us exactly what happened, and what you gleamed."

Cithria swallowed. For a brief moment, she thought back to the man's infuriating grin, his reckless attitude, his complete disregard for hierarchy and yet, the strange, undeniable strength that backed it all.

---

"Hmm. So he didn't show anything that he hadn't already revealed before," Tianna Crownguard said, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "Perhaps he's keeping certain abilities close to his chest, as one of his station might be expected to."

She turned slightly toward Garen. "Although, I don't believe that's the kind of man he is."

"My thoughts are the same, High Marshal," Garen replied with a short nod. "Asta doesn't strike me as someone who concerns himself with secrecy or schemes. He's far too straightforward for that."

Cithria kept her head bowed, hands clasped behind her back, listening silently as the Crownguards discussed her report.

"We know that he can fly, move faster than a Silverwing, and possesses strength surpassing that of a Minotaur," Tianna continued, her tone composed but laced with interest. "And that's without him relying on his magic, or anti-magic, as he calls it."

Garen's expression hardened in thought. "The boy, Darryl, is what intrigues me most at the moment. After only a month of training under Asta, he's managed to slay seven Gromps in a single day. Alone, and without preparation."

"With a bit more experience, he could become a formidable force," Tianna agreed with a measured nod. "Garen, why don't you teach him the sword, and the virtues of Demacia."

"Of course, High Marshal," Garen said firmly. "The boy shows great promise... He is a fine Demacian."

Tianna's gaze flicked toward the far end of the courtyard, where the first light of dawn was just breaking over the spires. "As for Fiona. I have no doubt she will seek him out before the week's end."

The High Marshal turned toward the castle gates, her cloak sweeping behind her as the sun finally crested the horizon. "Keep the Mage Seekers out of this. We don't need them meddling in matters. I will speak with Eldred."

"As you wish, High Marshal," Garen said, bowing his head.

When she was gone, silence filled the courtyard once more, broken only by the faint hum of awakening soldiers within the barracks.

Cithria exhaled quietly, still processing what she'd heard. "You think it'll work? Pairing them of all people?"

Garen gave a small, humorless chuckle. "If it doesn't," he said, turning toward the rising light, "then I just hope the fortress can survive the rematch."

Cithria hoped the same thing. She could still remember the meeting between Asta, the foreign Mage and Fiona. Pride of Demacia.

---

It had been just yesterday.

The sun was beginning to dip when they returned from Meltridge. Darryl had been all but glowing, dragging his Gromp trophies through the gates, shouting about how "Captain Asta's training" was the greatest thing that ever happened to him.

Cithria had barely managed to keep him from tripping over his own excitement.

"We're getting paid for this, right?" he asked, glancing over at Cithria with that usual grin. "This was hard work."

Cithria felt one of her eyes twitch. "You didn't even do anything."

"A job's a job, dear Cithria," Asta said in a mock-serious tone, raising his chin like a nobleman.

She ground her teeth together. "If it were up to me…" She sighed. "We should at least get their carcasses to the Beastwrights. They use the materials for all sorts of things."

Asta tilted his head, curious. "Are they the ones paying us?"

Cithria shook her head. "No. The mission was ordered directly by the Crown. So, either the prince or the High Marshal will see to your payment."

"Cool," Asta said, smiling wider. "Then that means I can use the carcasses however I want."

Cithria blinked. "What?"

"I'm still gonna make Darryl a magic broom."

She stared at him flatly. "What in the Winged Protector's name is a magic broom?"

Asta chuckled under his breath. "Heheh. Just point me in the direction of your crafters..."

"Captain!"

Both Asta and Cithria turned toward the voice. Darryl was riding back down the path.

"What's up, kid?" Asta called out.

"There's someone waiting for us back home," Darryl said, slowing his mount. "They said they came to meet you."

"Hn?" Asta tilted his head, brow quirking. "Someone wants to meet me? Well, let's not keep them waiting."

Cithria couldn't help the faint unease curling in her stomach. 'I wonder who it is...' she thought as they started down the cobblestone path toward the estate. 'The kind of people who can just 'drop by' to meet Asta aren't exactly ordinary. Probably a noble. Maybe I should leave before this turns into trouble.'

Unfortunately, that thought came a little too late.

As the estate gates came into view, so did the figure waiting there, poised, elegant, and unmistakable. Even from a distance, the polished silver of her rapier's hilt gleamed beneath the early morning sun.

'Oh no.'

Fiora Laurent stood at the gate.

Cithria immediately froze, her boots scraping against the stone as she stopped short. "What is she doing here?" she blurted before she could stop herself.

"Hm?" Asta followed her gaze, eyes narrowing. "You know who that is?"

Cithria nodded quickly, trying to compose herself but failing. "Y–yeah. That's Fiora. Lady Fiora Laurent. The greatest duelist in all of Demacia... ever."

"Hah?" Asta frowned, his face twisting in mild irritation. "La–what? What the hell kind of name is that? Lahore? Lahole? Lahuh? Lawhore?"

Cithria's eye twitched. "It's Laurent, you idiot! L–A–U–R–E–N–T. Laurent!"

Asta gave her a blank look. "That just spells 'Laurent.' Where did this Lahuh thing come from?"

"That's how it's pronounced!" Cithria shouted, exasperated.

"Well, it's dumb," Asta said flatly, rolling his eyes.

Fiora's eyes flicked toward them as they approached, sharp and assessing. Her posture was perfect, her expression unreadable, a mix of nobility and restrained impatience. The kind of presence that made even seasoned knights hesitate to breathe too loudly.

Cithria almost did.

Asta, however, looked about as impressed as someone staring at a fence. He waved lazily. "Yo. You the one waitin' for me?"

The tension in the air tightened like a bowstring.
Cithria felt her soul leave her body for a second. 'He just... did he just say yo to Fiora Laurent?'

"Yes," Fiora replied, her tone clipped but calm. "I am Fiora Laurent of House Laurent. You must be Asta."

Asta grinned. "The one and only."

Fiora's gaze slid briefly to the Gromp carcasses piled behind them. "Did you slay all of those yourself?"

"Me?" Asta repeated, tilting his head. "Na. That was all Darryl here see. Kid's a natural."

Cithria felt a vein in her forehead throb. "You're not helping," she muttered under her breath.

Fiora ignored her entirely, her attention locked on Asta. "Is that so? I saw the result of your... demonstration. However that doesn't concern me in the least. What does concern me are rumours of your duel with Garen."

"Rumors, huh?" Asta scratched the back of his head. "Guess word gets around."

"It does," Fiora said. "And I find myself… curious."

Cithria swallowed. 'Oh no. Not that tone.'

Fiora stepped forward, hand resting lightly on her rapier's hilt. "Rumours of your skill with the blade. I would see it firsthand. A duel."

"Called it," Cithria muttered.

Asta blinked, expression caught between confusion and amusement. "A duel? For what?"

"To measure your worth," Fiora answered simply. "Words and tales mean little to me. Only the blade speaks truth."

For a long moment, Asta just stared at her. Then he grinned wide. "Heh. So that's how it is."

Cithria's shoulders slumped. "I should have just left when I had the chance…"

Fiora stepped back, the faintest spark of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Lady Laurent!" Cithria cut in, nearly panicking. "We just got back from a mission, at least give them a chance to..."

But it was too late.

Fiora had already drawn her rapier in one smooth, glittering motion. The blade caught the light as if eager to taste air again. "What say you? Asta of Clover?"

Asta tilted his head to the right, the sound of his neck cracking echoing faintly through the courtyard. "Alright, works for me," he said casually. "I could use a stretch anyway. Who knows, maybe you'll learn a thing or two."

If the jab landed, Fiora didn't show it. Her expression remained calm, composed, and razor-sharp as ever. Only her eyes flicked slightly toward Cithria.

"Cithria of Cloudfield," she said evenly.

Cithria stiffened. 'How the hell does she know who I am? Her mind scrambled. The Fiora Laurent knows who I am!'

"This duel will end at first blood," Fiora continued, her tone measured and unyielding. "No killing blows. You will oversee it as his witness, and ensure that it remains fair, non?"

Cithria swallowed hard, taking a step forward before bowing slightly. "Y-Yes, my lady… but, my lady, you don't appear to have a witness of your own."

Fiora's brow lifted ever so slightly. Her tone didn't change. "You will ensure that it is fair, non?"

Cithria froze for half a second before nodding quickly. "Y-Yes, my lady."

"Then there is no issue," Fiora said, her voice like polished steel. She turned back toward Asta with a fluid grace, one hand resting lightly on her riposte's hilt.

Asta scratched the back of his neck, looking her over with a faint smirk. "You sure you wanna do this? I don't wanna sound too confident or anything, but… I'm really strong. I was joking earlier, but I'd rather not hurt you."

For the first time, Cithria saw it, just a flicker of something sharp pass across Fiora's face. Disgust. Offense. Then it vanished, replaced by that same icy poise.

Her hand shifted. Metal whispered.

"Draw your blade," she said.

The words carried no emotion, yet they cut clean through the air.

Asta looked like he wanted to say something, maybe a smug remark or another one of his infuriating taunts, but instead, his grin faded. His expression shifted into something far more focused as the worn grimoire at his side began to glow softly, rising into the air beside him.

Cithria felt her breath catch. 'Oh right... the book.' She knew what came next. The last time she'd seen it open, he'd pulled a blade the size of a battering ram from its pages.

'Lady Fiora is going to get hurt, isn't she? This is such a bad idea,' she thought, anxiety twisting in her chest.

But when the weapon emerged, it wasn't the massive slab of iron she'd braced herself for.

Instead, a slender, curved black blade slid soundlessly from the open pages, its edge gleaming faintly under the morning light. Asta caught it with both hands, his movements smooth and deliberate.

He lowered into a stance, stable, disciplined, and calm.

Cithria's eyes widened. 'He's taking her seriously?' she realized. 'He actually sees her as a threat?'

Fiora, for her part, seemed quietly satisfied by the display. She rolled her shoulders once, loosening her posture, then swept her rapier through the air in two precise arcs, an elegant prelude that carried the weight of a practiced duelist.

Asta arched a brow at the motion, then smirked and copied her with exaggerated movements, his curved blade slicing lazily through the air.

Cithria's hand met her face with a quiet thump.

Fiora ignored the mockery, gliding a step to her left, her feet light and measured.

Asta mirrored her, shifting to the right.

The two began to circle each other, predator and prey, though which was which was impossible to tell.

The world seemed to hold its breath. Even the wind dared not disturb the space between them.

Fiora's eyes narrowed, a silent question flickering in them. Will you not strike first?

Asta met her gaze, grin creeping back across his face. "Don't want it to end too fast, ya know."

This time Fiora did show a reaction, her jaw tightening as her blade flashed forward.

 

[SaberGlory]

By the time Cithria heard the faint crackle of sparks, Fiora had already stepped back.

Cithria's eyes widened. She wasn't even sure what she'd just seen, or if she'd seen anything at all.

She knew the name Lady Fiora Laurent well. Everyone in Demacia did. The greatest duelist of her generation, heir to a lineage of swordmasters so precise they could parry an arrow mid-flight. Cithria had heard the stories since she was a squire, though she'd never witnessed one of Fiora's duels herself. She'd believed the tales, of course, but what she had just witnessed cast them in an entirely new light.

Fiora had advanced by no more than a single, graceful step. Her sword arm had extended just slightly, a movement so small that most would've missed it entirely. And yet, within that subtle motion, her rapier had slashed upward and downward in two diagonal arcs so fast that the air itself seemed to sing.

Asta had met both strikes. Effortlessly.

He hadn't lunged or sidestepped. He hadn't even shifted his stance. He'd merely tilted his wrist, letting his curved black blade swivel in a tight, fluid motion, and the two attacks were stopped cold.

The brief flash of contact had produced the sound she'd heard, that soft, electric crack of metal on metal, sharp and bright like lightning kissing steel.

The courtyard was silent again before the echoes faded.

Cithria blinked, still trying to process what had just happened. It was over in the span of a heartbeat, yet she felt as though she'd just witnessed a dozen exchanges compressed into one impossible instant.

"Whoa," Darryl whispered from behind her, his tone hushed with awe. "They didn't even move their swords… What were those sparks?"

Cithria didn't answer. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She wasn't sure how to explain it, how to describe what she'd just seen.

Fiora had moved with such precision that it was almost unsettling. Every motion was deliberate, measured, and so refined that even the smallest twitch of her wrist carried lethal intent. No matter how slowly she advanced, Cithria could tell, that her blade would always reach her opponent before they had time to react.

It wasn't difficult to imagine any swordsman, even an experienced one, being caught off guard by that opening strike. Herself included.

But Asta wasn't just any swordsman.

It was only after the brief shower of sparks faded that Cithria realized what she'd actually witnessed. At first, she'd thought Fiora had caught him completely off guard, his body hadn't moved, his stance hadn't shifted. He'd just stood there.

Then she saw it.

The way his katana was angled, the flat of the blade facing forward instead of its edge. He had turned his wrist at the last possible moment, redirecting her rapier with a motion so small it was nearly invisible.

He had deflected Fiora Laurent's attack, one of Demacia's fastest, with a flick of his wrist.

Cithria exhaled slowly. These weren't two fighters testing each other. These were two masters, and their language was the sword.

Asta chuckled, breaking the silence that had settled over the courtyard. "That was… something," he said, tilting his blade lazily back into guard. "A real lethal technique you've got there. But isn't this supposed to be a duel? No killing blows, right?"

Fiora didn't flinch. Her expression remained calm, poised, though her tone carried a cool edge when she spoke. "Do you usually talk this much in a duel of blades?" she asked, her rapier lowering just slightly as she straightened, one foot sliding back into position, her pauldroned shoulder angled elegantly away from him.

"Ouch. That hurt my feelings. Princess." He shifted his stance, subtly, almost lazily, but Cithria noticed it. His back foot angled, the toes pointing inward, the weight sliding just enough to make his next step unreadable. Although Fiora's brow has twitched at the nickname, her eyes followed the movement, her rapier's tip never once wavering from the line of his heart.

For a moment, nothing moved.

Asta lunged, the ground cracking beneath his step. His blade came in low, curving like a serpent, cutting for Fiora's side. She turned her wrist, catching the attack on the thin edge of her riposte, and Cithria winced as she saw Fiora make a costly mistake.

Fiora had undoubtedly faced many formidable duelists before. Most of them, as was typical in Demacia, had been men. On occasion, she even sparred with Garen Crownguard himself, a man whose strength was nearly legendary. She had long since mastered the art of turning brute force against itself, her parries sharp enough to redirect even the heaviest of blows.

But none of them were as strong as Asta.

She realized it the instant their blades met. The sheer weight behind his strike sent a deep tremor up her arm, rattling through her bones. Fiora's heels slid backward across the stone, two quick steps before she managed to steady her stance. A faint cloud of dust rose around her boots, curling in a soft haze that shimmered in the morning light.

For the first time in years, Fiora Laurent found herself forced to brace.

Quickly, she pivoted, successfully parrying the blow. She was forced to take another step back when Asta tried to chain into another strike. "Eastern footwork," she murmured, almost to herself.

Asta exhaled a small laugh. "You actually noticed that?"

Fiora gave him a look that could have cut as sharply as her blade, a silent, elegant glare that asked why he would bother with such a pointless question. "Such is excellence," she replied coolly. "The standard expected of all Demacians."

Asta raised an eyebrow, half amused, half confused. "…Okay."

A faint smile tugged at Fiora's lips, the smallest crack in her composed demeanor, before she moved again. This time, there was no restraint, no testing of waters. Her entire body flowed into motion, the lunge perfectly balanced and executed with lethal grace.

Asta met her strike head-on, his own grin spreading wide as he brought his katana up in a sweeping parry. The impact rang like a bell, reverberating through the courtyard. Fiora's momentum carried her forward as the clash left her momentarily airborne, her cape fluttering in the wake of the force.

But she recovered instantly. Pushing off his blade with a twist of her wrist, she spun midair and landed lightly behind him in a low crouch. Her rapier darted out once more, a gleaming silver line aimed for his back, her entire momentum poured into that single thrust.

Asta's eyes flicked over his shoulder. He shifted, just a breath faster than her blade.

By the time Fiora realized what had happened, the tip of Asta's katana was already poised beneath her chin.

"I win, princess," he said with a teasing grin.

A single, near-invisible bead of blood slid down the edge of his blade, glinting crimson in the light.

Fiora froze, then exhaled softly through her nose. "So… it would seem."

She straightened, sheathing her rapier with practiced calm, "This duel," she said quietly, "is concluded."

Asta chuckled, sheathing his katana as the last traces of tension bled from the air. "You're not all that bad, princess," he said with a crooked grin. "Though I'd really like to know why you decided to challenge me in the middle of the road."

Fiora arched a brow, her poise as unshakable as ever. "I believe I mentioned that I sought to test your worth, to see it for myself."

Asta tilted his head, his expression twisting with mild confusion. "Yeah, but why though?"

For the first time since the duel began, Fiora's lips curved into something resembling amusement. "Because," she said, her voice calm, clipped, yet carrying that effortless grace that made everything she said sound like a declaration, "I am Fiora Laurent, current head of House Laurent."

She turned with fluid precision, her cloak sweeping lightly behind her as she began to walk away. Over her shoulder, she added, almost as an afterthought, "And I suppose… you are adequate."

____Flash Back End____

It had been three days since Darryl returned from his very first mission with his captain, three days since his first real fight, and that strange encounter with the noblewoman.

He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the leather straps of the heavy satchel slung across his back. The bag was filled with rough, uneven stones, more than twenty of them by his last count. It wasn't exactly the kind of thing he'd imagined carrying after a mission, but then again, this had been Sir Garen Crownguard's idea. And that, in itself, was still hard to believe.

Just yesterday, the Sword-Captain himself had told Darryl he intended to teach him the sword.

He'd nearly dropped the training blade right there when Garen said it.

A shout from the street snapped him back to the present. Darryl swerved out of the way just in time as a carriage rumbled past, the horses snorting clouds of mist in the cool morning air. Behind him, Captain Asta strolled at his usual unhurried pace, hands dragging behind his cloak, eyes scanning the city with mild curiosity.

Darryl tried to do the same, -after all, he was in Demacia's capital, the great heart of the kingdom- but his gaze kept flicking to the shadows between buildings and the rooftops above. He'd counted at least a dozen MageSeekers since they'd entered the city, each one pretending not to watch them.

But Darryl could feel their eyes.

Even though he and Asta were only headed toward one of the crafters Sir Garen had personally recommended, the MageSeekers' presence made the back of his neck itch.

Asta ignored the obvious onlookers, dragging the cart behind him with materials collected from the seven Gromps that Darryl had defeated. He pulled it effortlessly with a single arm, as if it weighed nothing. Darryl couldn't help but marvel, his captain's strength was staggering to see always, almost unreal.

He made sure to stay within sight, sticking close to the middle of the road as Asta had instructed. "Don't wander too far," the captain had warned, and Darryl obeyed, half in awe, half in caution.

His eyes widened as a massive, no, colossal, figure came into view, Galio, Demacia's greatest protector. Darryl felt a mixture of fear and fascination.

Even when he was far younger, stories of Galio were everywhere, how the living statue had risen to defend Demacia from Noxian threats, how it had single-handedly turned the tide in countless battles.

But there was another side to it, one that made Darryl uneasy now that he knew what he was. Galio had been created to counter mages. His mere presence could cripple spells, neutralizing the very magic that mages relied upon.

"Oh! I think it's this way! Darryl, over here!" Asta's voice rang from behind, snapping Darryl out of his thoughts.

Darryl jogged the last few steps to catch up, his boots clattering against the cobblestones. He forced himself to focus on the path ahead, though his eyes couldn't help but dart back toward Galio every few seconds.

Asta turned a corner, and Darryl followed, the cart rattling behind them. The city smelled of smoke and fresh bread, a strange mix that made Darryl's stomach tighten. Merchants were opening their stalls, shouting greetings and deals to the early crowd, but none of that seemed to touch his awareness. Every shadow, every glance from a passerby, felt loaded with meaning.

They reached a narrow street tucked between two towering buildings. At the end of it, smoke curled from a small forge, and the clang of hammer against metal rang faintly through the air. Asta slowed the cart, letting it coast gently to a stop.

"This is the place," he said, pointing toward the forge. The sign above the door read Haldor Craftworks, its letters blackened from smoke and heat. "Sir Garen said their work is exceptional. If we want the best, we go here."

As they reached the door, a bell tinkled overhead. A muscular woman with soot-streaked hands and a wide leather apron looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of Asta.

"Well, welcome to my humble..." the woman started, voice gruff but not unkind. She narrowed her eyes in recognition. "You must be Asta. Asta of Clover. Yes. Sir Garen mentioned you. I'm Elara."

"This is Darryl," Asta said smoothly, lifting one hand in introduction before gesturing to the cart. "We came to you for some specialized work for him. I've been told you're the best in the capital."

The woman's eyes flicked to the cart. Her brow lifted, and a faint smile touched her lips.

"Best, you say? That Garen. We'll see about that," she muttered, stepping aside. "Come in. Let's see what we can do. What do you have in mind?"

Asta grinned. "I want you to make a broom."

She froze for a beat. "A broom?"

Darryl groaned. "Captain!"

---

Asta laughed softly as he leaned against the door of the craftswoman's workshop. Inside, he had left Darryl speaking with the woman, going over the finer details of what he wanted his flying broom to look like.

It didn't necessarily have to be a broom, just something capable of channeling Darryl's magic and allowing him to soar through the air. Asta had no intention of enduring another grueling eight hours on horseback, the rhythm of hooves and the creak of leather still fresh in his memory.

Across the street, two MageSeekers happened to pass by, casting curious glances in his direction.

Of course, Asta pretended not to notice them, or the thirteen other MageSeekers hidden among the bustling crowd. Even above him, on the rooftops, a few more eyes followed his every move. He sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He'd have to endure this constant scrutiny a little longer.

Narrowing his eyes, he shifted his gaze to the wall beside him. "How much longer are you going to keep watching me?" he asked, his tone calm but edged with warning.

Suddenly, he felt the stalkers on the rooftops shift and retreat in a hurry. Even the MageSeekers hidden among the crowds, along with those openly observing him, seemed disoriented, unsure of their positions. One by one, they began to disperse, melting into the streets as though they had never been there.

Asta's eyes narrowed as he turned back to the wall, his attention sharp and unflinching.

"How long have you been aware of me?" a sultry female voice asked. The wall shimmered, and a brown-haired woman materialized a few feet away, her presence calm yet commanding.

Asta raised an eyebrow, regarding her carefully. "Since you became aware of me."

He looked her up and down. "I saw you in the royal palace as well, though you looked entirely different then. Transformation magic? No… I recognized you anyway, so it's too weak to be that. Illusion magic, then. Not bad, you should join the Black Bulls."

The pale woman... the witch of a thousand faces, Leblanc, leader of the Black Rose, blinked in surprise. "What?"

 

[trashtaker]

If leblanc touches one of Asta's sword. She might just die instantly lmao

 

[SaberGlory]

If leblanc touches one of Asta's sword. She might just die instantly lmao

Click to shrink...

Yeah, since she's a clone made of magic or at least, all of them seem to be

 

[SaberGlory]

The first thing she noticed when he entered the royal estate was that he was invisible to her senses.

'How strange.'

He walked among the Dauntless Vanguard, their armor gleaming beneath the noon light. They surrounded him like a living wall, each soldier both wary and, curiously, comfortable in his presence.

She bowed her head as they passed, a humble gesture befitting her guise as a gardener, though her eyes never left him.

For the briefest of moments, their gazes met. The foreigner regarded her with only a fleeting glance, light and unreadable.

Perhaps it was meant as acknowledgment, a courteous nod to a lowly servant. Such a gesture might have warmed the heart of a simpler soul, but she was made of sterner substance.

Or perhaps it was suspicion, a fleeting test of will. Many of her lesser sisters would have faltered beneath that sharp gaze, but she held her bow with practiced grace, her expression composed, her curiosity veiled behind servile awe.

Only when he passed beyond the courtyard did she lift her head. Even then, there was no lingering trace of his presence, no magical resonance, no echo of aura.

It was as if he had never been there at all. No existence beyond that of memory.

Where every living being carried within them an essence, what she referred to as life, he possessed no such thing. There was no pulse of spirit, no flicker of energy to mark his existence.

He didn't even feel hollow or empty. No, it was far stranger than that. It was as though he simply… didn't exist.

Did that mean he wasn't alive?

No. She had heard his heartbeat when he passed close by, steady and strong. To her eyes, he appeared as alive as any other man or woman, undeniably there.

But beyond the flesh, on that subtler plane where life's essence danced and intertwined, there was nothing.

Metaphysically, he was a void. She was intrigued.

---

He had been granted quarters within the noble district, an odd development, to say the least. Though she had not attended the council herself, whispers from the lesser nobles soon painted a vivid picture of what had transpired.

He hailed from another realm. Not the Spirit Realm, nor some lesser pocket of existence, but a true alternate world, another plane entire, a separate universe in its own right.

That revelation alone set her mind alight with curiosity. Could that be the reason she could not perceive him? Was his soul so alien that it resonated upon a frequency beyond this world's comprehension?

No. The truth revealed itself soon enough, and he had made no effort to conceal it.

Anti-Magic.

He was born in a realm where magic governed all things, where the worth of man and nation alike was measured by the potency of the arcane flowing through their veins. And yet, he alone had been born bereft of it, an empty vessel in a world drowning in sorcery.

But in that void, something else had stirred. He had awakened the antithesis of their order, the power to nullify magic itself.

The Demacian nobles, in their gilded ignorance, dismissed this revelation without a thought. To them, anti-magic was nothing new. They possessed petricite, that holy mineral forged to silence spellcraft.

'Fools,' she mused. 'Arrogant, short-sighted fools.'

She knew, beyond all doubt, that it was genuine. Already, his mere presence had thwarted her attempts to scrutinize him, and his arrival alone had nudged Demacia's fate ever so slightly away from the course she had so carefully woven.

And yet, for all her intuition, she could not truly fathom the nature of this Anti-Magic. It was an enigma, one that eluded even her considerable understanding.

Until the incident.

The day when the heavens themselves were shrouded in black steel. The day that would later be remembered, whispered even, as The Black Sky Incident.

It was on that day that she at last comprehended what Anti-Magic truly was. The moment when her breath hitched and her limbs grew numb, when her connection to the arcane was severed utterly, and for the briefest of instants, she was rendered no more than a mundane girl.

The sensation was... alien. Disquieting. Yet strangely intoxicating. She could not decide whether she despised it or desired to feel it again.

"Such chaos," she had murmured then, her lips curling in faint amusement. "This could be useful."

Indeed, it could. If she could but discern how to wield it properly. In its raw form, it was the answer to a thousand of her long-standing woes, but if mishandled, it might well birth a thousand more.

She would not permit another failure. Not like Nockmirch. (Author Note: Go and read the Garen light novel if you're wondering about what failure she's talking about. It's called Garen: First Shield.)

---

Through a subtle weaving of persuasion, and perhaps a touch of enchantment, she managed to convince one of the royal officials to arrange her transfer to the foreigner's manor within the noble quarters.

It was far more convenient than impersonating an existing member of the household staff. After all, she was uncertain of what might occur should his Anti-Magic once more nullify her spells. The risk of exposure was far too great.

He appeared to have taken on a pupil of sorts, a boy named Darryl. The child's magic was feeble, his grasp upon the arcane little more than a flickering ember. Yet, the foreigner seemed devoted to his training, blind to the fact that he had already granted the boy a mercy beyond measure by sparing him from the persecution that awaited most mages.

Asta, as he was called, possessed a heart far too pure for this world. A naive soul, and perhaps a simple mind. Fortunate, then, that such simplicity might serve her purposes well.

He spent his days guiding the boy through drills and meditation, and in the evenings, he often conversed with Garen, occasionally crossing blades with him for sport.

She, meanwhile, kept a prudent distance, careful not to let her guise unravel. To all who looked her way, she was but a humble gardener, tending quietly to the nobleman's flowers.

Upon returning from a recent expedition with the boy, and after what whispers claimed was a peculiar encounter and brief clash with a duelist, he soon led his pupil upon yet another errand, this time to the artisans' quarter.

According to his own words, their purpose was to commission the forging of a relic from his homeland, a magical item, as he described it.

Naturally, her curiosity was stirred. With little else demanding her attention, she chose to follow at a prudent distance.

It required no great effort for her to bend perception around herself, weaving a subtle enchantment that caused any who glanced her way to dismiss her as wholly unremarkable.

Even the ever-watchful MageSeekers, those self-proclaimed sentinels of purity, proved laughably susceptible to her craft. They were little more than brutes in uniform, preying upon the powerless while strutting beneath the banner of righteousness.

Her only misstep came when she lingered too long by the threshold of the craftsman's door. The moment Asta stepped outside, she sensed his awareness brush against her presence like a blade grazing silk.

In an instant, she summoned a veil of concealment, cloaking herself from both sight and sorcery alike. Yet, it availed her nothing.

He turned his gaze in her direction and spoke, calm, unhurried, asking how long she intended to continue her silent observation.

In that moment, she understood. He knew.

'Nothing is amiss,' she projected outward, her mind a still pond, sending the thought through the ether with herself as its undisturbed center.

The MageSeekers who had shadowed their every step faltered as if gripped by sudden confusion. One by one, they dispersed into the streets, their minds quietly rewriting their purpose until not a trace of suspicion remained. None could recall why they had followed the foreigner in the first place.

Even the hidden blades upon the rooftops, the silent assassins sworn to observe from afar, found their conviction dissolve like mist before dawn. To them, there was nothing amiss. No threat. No quarry. Only the faint whisper of an abandoned duty.

Yet the foreigner remained unmoved. His gaze held steady upon her concealment, as though the veil she so deftly wove were but glass before his eyes.

"How long have you been aware of me?" she asked at last, stepping forth from the unseen. Her illusion faded like smoke upon the wind, her form now laid bare beneath the muted light. Anti-Magic truly is as formidable as I had surmised, she mused silently.

"Since you became aware of me," came his calm reply.

Her brow arched, a subtle expression of intrigue. 'Ah... since our first encounter, then. So he perceived me even then. How vexing, and yet, how very fascinating.'

Then he looked her up and down. "I saw you in the royal palace as well, though you looked entirely different then. Transformation magic? No… I recognized you anyway, so it's too weak to be that. Illusion magic, then. Not bad, you should join the Black Bulls."

Until the day she died, she would never admit that she had been caught so completely off guard that she had blurted out an unguarded, "What?"

'Is he… recruiting me?' she wondered, momentarily flabbergasted by how absurdly the situation had turned.

Asta merely shrugged, utterly unfazed. "I don't know why you've been stalking me…"

She bristled at the accusation, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Stalker? How dare he. A stalker was a pitiful creature, an obsessive fool with nothing better to do than to unhealthily obsess over someone who couldn't even care about them. She was nothing of the sort.

She paused. 'Wait...'

"…but you seem pretty persistent," he continued, his tone carrying the weight of someone who had dealt with similar situations . "I'd rather you not get yourself into too much trouble when you do eventually get in way over your head. And you will."

He was scolding her. He was actually scolding her.

The great LeBlanc, the Pale Lady of countless guises, found herself standing there, bemused, incredulous, and, for the first time in a very long while, utterly at a loss for words.

The sheer audacity of him, this magicless fool from a foreign world, to speak to her in such a manner. And yet, there was not a trace of arrogance in his tone. A maddening, unshakable sincerity that made her want to sneer and smile all at once.

He began to walk away then, toward the workshop door, his tone casual but his words deliberate. "You don't have to hide, you know. If you want to talk, just come by when I'm not busy. I don't like being followed."

She stared after him, speechless once more. The gall of this man. "Emilia." She said after him. "I'm Emilia. A gardener in your estate."

Asta paused, his expression softening. "Cool. You're welcome anytime. I'll make you a cloak when you do, and perhaps, one day, you'll tell me your true name."

She stood still as he turned and stepped into the workshop, the door closing gently behind him. A quiet breeze tugged at the edges of her cloak. 'He has a way of catching falsehoods,' she mused, a glimmer of curiosity lighting her eyes. 'It cannot be magic, for he wields none. Is it instinct, or perhaps a skill that can be learned?'

Her chestnut hair flowed with the wind as she finally made her decision, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles.

---

Darryl ducked beneath a sweeping strike, the head of the spear whistling inches above him. His short sword flashed in a swift counterattack, the blade glinting as it cut through the air.

The Demacian spearman before him leapt backward, his movements crisp and precise. With disciplined grace, he twisted his weapon, turning Darryl's momentum aside before settling back into a guarded stance.

Of course, he wasn't facing a real Demacian spearman, but having never fought one, Darryl had no way of knowing the difference.

He was still in awe. Emilia was a remarkable mage. From what he had witnessed, her mastery of illusions was extraordinary, the spearman he faced now was no exception. It was a solid, tangible illusion, so convincing that he could almost believe it real.

Darryl couldn't quite put it into words, but he knew one thing, that was impressive, Right?

Watching from a short distance, the gardener, Emilia, stood beside Asta, holding the black robe he had handed her a moment ago.

"This is made of Anti-Magic?" she asked, lifting the garment slightly to inspect its texture.

Asta nodded, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Oh yeah. It can protect you from just about any magic attack a few times before I need to recharge it."

She tilted her head, curious. "It won't interfere with my own magic?"

"Nah. Not really," he replied with a shrug. His eyes flicked toward Darryl, who was now sitting on the ground, dusted from yet another defeat at the hands of the illusory spearman.

Emilia glanced at Darryl, anticipating the question he might ask. "You don't need to worry about him, Asta. While my illusion magic differ from his Earth magic, there are still things I can teach him. He has remarkable potential."

Asta chuckled lightly, unconcerned. "Oh, I'm not worried about that at all. He can become stronger than anyone with hardwork and determination."

She scarcely believed that. Not with his pathetic magic power anyway. Perhaps if she added something.

"And, call me captain." Asta added.

Emilia shook her head firmly, her expression resolute. "No."

On the cobblestones, Darryl nodded, his jaw set with determination. "Again!"

He sprang to his feet, tightening his grip around his short sword as mana surged through his veins, making the weapon hum faintly with latent energy.

A grim smile tugged at his lips as the spearman assumed its stance once more. Things were looking up, not just in the duel, but in his life. His… family had gained a new member.

 

[trashtaker]

Hag witch. Hag witch

 

[ThePoroKing]

Ain't no way Le Blanc is acting like a future female lead rn.

 

[trashtaker]

Ain't no way Le Blanc is acting like a future female lead rn.

Click to shrink...

Hag witch HAG WITCH!!!! HAAAAAAAAG WIIIIIIIIITTTCCHHH!!!!!

 

[ThePoroKing]

Hag witch HAG WITCH!!!! HAAAAAAAAG WIIIIIIIIITTTCCHHH!!!!!

Click to shrink...

I like em gilfs.

 

[SaberGlory]

Capelworth had fallen.

The words echoed in Tianna Crownguard's mind like the tolling of a funeral bell. She exhaled slowly, the parchment between her fingers as she read the reports that had arrived from the stricken province.

She had hoped, no, believed, that the arrival of the foreigner Asta and his establishment of the Magic Knights might stem the tide of unrest. Their presence had been meant to be used as a symbol, a declaration that Demacia's strength need not come from persecution, but from unity. A gesture to prove that Demacia still stood for justice, not merely for its hatred of mages.

And yet, despite every precaution, despite the risks she had taken and the political backlash she had endured, it had all crumbled to ash.

Sylas had struck again. And another province had been lost.

Tianna clenched her jaw, the faintest spark of fury breaking through her exhaustion. 'Curse that Dregbourne scum.'

But the fault did not lie with Sylas alone. No, the MageSeekers had been as arrogant as ever. She cursed them, too, under her breath.

In their zeal for control, the fools had built their laboratory into the roots of a petricite tree, one that ran through the very foundation of Capelworth itself. When Sylas brought it down, the explosion had consumed the entire district.

The casualty reports continued to flood in. Hundreds dead, perhaps more. Families torn apart. The streets that once sang with merchants and laughter now nothing but rubble and screams.

Tianna pressed her hand to her forehead, her eyes closing briefly as she whispered, "Winged Protector, grant me patience."

Her tone darkened as she continued under her breath, "Curse you, Eldred. The prince listens to you far too readily."

Her gaze drifted toward the window, where the towers of Demacia's capital stood proud against the waning light.

"If this continues," she murmured, voice heavy with the weight of grim foresight, "Demacia will not need its enemies to destroy it."

---

Emilia turned from where Darryl sat cross-legged on the ground, his eyes closed in deep concentration, and looked toward the three figures approaching across the courtyard.

Asta led the way, his usual energetic gait unmistakable even from afar. Beside him strode Garen Crownguard, ever composed in his polished armor, and trailing just behind them was a brown-haired girl whom Emilia dismissed almost immediately as unimportant.

Her attention instead shifted to the long, cloth-wrapped object Asta carried over his shoulder.

"Welcome back, Asta," she greeted, inclining her head slightly before turning to the noble beside him. "And good day to you, Sir Garen Crownguard."

"Yo," Asta replied with a grin, lifting a hand in casual greeting.

Garen offered a polite nod. "Good day to you as well, Miss Emilia. You seem well."

Asta glanced around the small courtyard. "We didn't interrupt anything, did we?"

Emilia gave a slight shrug, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Not entirely. I'm teaching him about vibrations and tremors, the way the earth communicates movement. It could improve his awareness in combat. He's struggling a bit, so I've set him to meditation for now."

Garen crossed his arms thoughtfully. "I see. I cannot say I fully understand, but it sounds… impressive. Keep at it."

Her brow arched faintly. Even now, she found it strange, this new Demacia that entertained mages within its walls. Stranger still to hear Garen Crownguard himself speak words that, not long ago, might have been deemed heresy.

'How curious,' she mused. 'The man who once would have cut me down for my craft now praises it.'

But she said nothing, merely returning his nod.

Asta broke the quiet with a grin. "Cool then. Darryl, your package's here."

At once, Darryl's eyes snapped open. He blinked, his focus breaking as he looked up at his captain. "Package?" His gaze dropped to the long, wrapped shape in Asta's hands, widening with realization. "Is that…?"

Asta nodded, a hint of pride flickering in his smile. "Your magic broom. Though, well… it's not exactly a broom."

Darryl jumped to his feet, all traces of meditation forgotten. He rushed forward eagerly, taking the object from Asta's hands and unwrapping it with visible excitement. The cloth fell away in folds, revealing what lay within.

"A broom?" Garen raised a brow.

Darryl held up a long, greenish-silver staff adorned with intricate markings along its shaft. One end was carved into the head of a bull, the other flaring into a spear-shaped design that housed a softly glowing blue orb suspended in midair. It looked more like an elegant magic staff than anything meant for sweeping.

Emilia crossed her arms, unimpressed. She didn't see the appeal.

"That's not a broom," Garen remarked dryly.

"And thank the Protectors for that," Darryl blurted, earning a faint smirk from Asta.

"It's a magic broom," Asta said proudly. "That's how it was in my homeland."

Darryl frowned. "A broom? What am I supposed to do with that, Captain? sweep the monsters away? That doesn't sound very efficient."

Asta's grin widened. His grimoire fluttered open beside him, pages glowing as a burst of red lightning flashed. From its depths, his great sword materialized in a surge of energy that made the air hum.

Emilia's focus sharpened instantly, her gaze locking on the blade.

"In my homeland," Asta began, resting the sword on his shoulder, "we had two main modes of transportation..."

"One of them was through spatial magic," Asta explained. "Specific mages with that ability could create portals and channels for instant transportation. It wasn't very common, though, it's a rare magic type so almost all spatial mages were either in squads or working for the royal family."

He tossed his sword lightly into the air. It spun once, then descended, only to stop mid-fall, hovering a foot above the ground, perfectly horizontal. The flat of the blade faced upward like a floating platform.

"What was common, though," Asta continued, stepping onto the broad sword with a confident grin, "were magic flying brooms. Everyone could use them."

He shifted his stance, balancing effortlessly as the sword lifted higher, gliding in a slow circle around the group. The faint hum of mana trailed behind him as he spoke again.

"Of course," he added with a chuckle, "I can't use magic. So I had to figure out my own method."

Garen stepped back slightly, his cape fluttering as the gust from Asta's movement washed over him. He watched in silence, a faint line forming between his brows, as the foreigner hovered lazily above the courtyard, arms folded, balance unwavering.

Darryl's eyes, on the other hand, shone with amazement. "That's, that's incredible!" he breathed. "You're flying on your sword?"

Asta grinned, turning his head just enough to flash his student a look of pride. "Yup! Took a while to get the hang of it, but it's faster than walking, and way cooler too."

Emilia tilted her head slightly, her tone dry. "So in your homeland, you use brooms for transportation?"

"Pretty much," Asta said, completely unbothered. He leaned forward, the sword swooping low enough that the hem of Emilia's cloak fluttered from the wind. "You don't need more than a few hours to travel the entire kingdom if you have the magic capacity for it."

"I wanna fly too captain!" Darryl cheered. "Teach me!"

"And I will, dear student of mine," Asta said, landing beside him with a faint metallic thud, the sword settling neatly at his side. "We'll never have to suffer through that horrible form of transportation."

He crouched beside Darryl, tapping the bull-headed end with his knuckles. "Try channeling your mana through it. It shouldn't take you long to understand how it works."

"Elara crafted this?" Garen asked, his tone carrying a hint of unease. His gaze lingered on the staff, eyes narrowing slightly. "You do realize this is practically a magic item, don't you?"

Behind Asta, Darryl was already crouched low, setting the staff beneath him as though trying to figure out how to sit on it.

"She did," Asta replied with a shrug. "And believe me, she made very sure I knew she wasn't a mage. Repeated it every five minutes, in fact. Said she'd never craft a magic staff under any circumstances." He paused, then grinned. "But it's not a magic staff. It's a broom. A weird-looking one, sure, but still a broom."

Garen raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching despite himself. "That looks nothing like a broom."

"It's a broom, Garen," Asta insisted, as though correcting a stubborn child. "You'll see soon enough. You'd better start getting used to looking up, anyway, we won't be mingling with you land-walkers much longer. Once Darryl gets the hang of flying, give it a few weeks…"

"Uh… Sir Asta?" came a hesitant voice.

Asta turned his head slightly, spotting the brown-haired girl, Cithria, standing just behind Garen. She was staring upward, her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun.

Asta frowned. "What's wrong?"

Instead of answering, she pointed. "That."

He followed her gesture, and froze.

Darryl was twelve feet off the ground, wobbling precariously as he clung to the staff for dear life. His legs kicked awkwardly beneath him as the staff drifted and spun in slow, uneven circles.

"Captain!" Darryl shouted, voice high with panic. "I think it's working, but I don't know how to stop it!"

Asta's grin spread slowly across his face. "Heh. That's my student. Starting to make me feel insecure with how quickly he's picking things up. Figure it out yourself."

Garen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Protectors preserve us…"

Emilia, who had been watching quietly from the sidelines, muttered under her breath, "Hmmm. There's promise in such a thing, perhaps."

Asta's grin faded, his expression hardening into something far more serious. He turned to face Garen fully, his voice lower now, steady but edged.

"I heard about what happened in Capelworth."

Garen's features tightened, the faint lines of fatigue visible even beneath his stoic demeanor. "I see," he said quietly. "It was… a grave loss for Demacia. Too many lives were taken."

Asta studied him for a long moment, then folded his arms. "You know," he said, tone skeptical, "I half expected you to send me after those rebel mages by now. My AntiMagic's basically built for that kind of thing."

Garen exhaled slowly and met Asta's gaze head-on. "Your presence in Demacia is still… precarious, Asta. You must understand, the kingdom stands upon uncertain ground. The Council would not risk any incident involving an emissary of an allied realm within our borders."

Asta ran a hand through his hair and sighed, the faintest trace of frustration slipping into his voice. "I thought we were past all that, Garen. Come on, man, I consider you my friend. I'm serious. We are friends, right?"

Garen's composure faltered for the briefest moment. His lips parted, as though to speak, but no words came. His expression warred between duty and sincerity, soldier and man, and in that heartbeat of hesitation, Asta caught his answer.

He gave a small, rueful smile. "They don't want me meeting this Sylas guy, do they?"

The silence that followed said more than any admission could. Garen flinched, just slightly, but enough for the two most perceptive among them, Emilia and Cithria, to notice.

Asta caught it too. He gave a quiet chuckle, though his tone carried no mockery. "I get it. Really, I do," he said, his gaze steady on the Demacian commander. "Mages are oppressed in Demacia, something I still find both odd and stupid, by the way. Sylas is leading a rebellion for equality, or at least that's how it seems. And someone like me, coming from a world overflowing with magic, would probably see things his way. I even declared my dream of becoming the Wizard King. So yeah, I understand why you wouldn't want me meeting him."

He crossed his arms, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before fading into something more solemn. "But here's the thing. What Sylas is doing is wrong. It's that simple. I get that he's got his reasons, and I'm not blind to the pain he's gone through, but what he's doing won't fix a thing. It'll just breed more hatred."

Asta's tone softened, but his voice carried the conviction of one who spoke from experience. "I faced that same kind of oppression growing up. In my homeland, magic was everything. It decided your worth, your status, your very right to exist. And me?" He gave a small, humorless laugh. "I was born without a drop of it. To them, even the weakest mage stood above me. I was trash... trash to the trash."

Garen said nothing, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed on the ground.

"But I didn't stay that way," Asta continued, his voice firm now, burning with quiet pride. "I proved them wrong. Every last one of them. And I did it in a way they could never deny, by earning merit. By working until no one could look at me and say I wasn't worth something. You show them proof, Garen. Proof that they can't ignore. Proof that you're better."

He looked up toward the distant skyline, where Demacia's banners fluttered proudly against the clouds. "That's how you change a world. Not by tearing it apart, but by forcing it to see what it refused to before."

Garen slowly lifted his gaze to meet Asta's, the steel in his eyes tempered by weariness. "It's not that simple, Asta," he said quietly, his tone carrying the weight of years spent balancing duty and doubt.

Asta smiled faintly, though there was little humor in it, only conviction. "Maybe not," he admitted. "But how would we ever know if we're never willing to try? Sylas didn't bother to try. He didn't seek to change things, he decided to burn down the very country that wronged him. The path he's chosen has no good endings, only more suffering."

The words hung between them, heavy yet sincere. Asta stepped closer, resting a firm hand on Garen's pauldron. "You can tell the High Marshal that I'll be joining the defense against the rebels. She doesn't have to worry about me turning my back on Demacia," he said, his voice steady. "I made a promise to stand with Demacia, and where I come from, a promise means everything."

Garen studied him for a long moment, the foreigner's earnest expression reflected in the polished gleam of his armor. Then, with a slow nod, the Sword of Demacia replied, "Then Demacia will be honored to have you at her side."

 

[ThePoroKing]

Sylas will get a beatdown soon.

 

[SaberGlory]

Darryl shivered, though he couldn't tell if it was from the bite of the cold air rushing past him or from the nerves twisting in his stomach.

Just over a week ago, when he had first received his flying staff (and no, he still refused to call it a magic broom) he'd overheard Sword-Captain Garen speaking with his own captain about joining the effort to stop the rebel mages he'd heard so much about.

Now here they were, cutting through the skies above Demacia itself. The marble-white towers and narrow streets sprawled beneath them like a map, glowing faintly in the evening light. And yes, he was actually flying. On his magic broo... staff. Definitely staff. Headed straight toward the MageSeekers' headquarters.

Why?

Because the infamous rebel, Sylas of Dregbourne, had been sighted attacking the place.

Darryl's grip tightened around the shaft of his staff as the thought sank in. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about Sylas. Everyone in Demacia knew the name, the Kingslayer, the mage who'd escaped his chains, the most dangerous man alive. And yet, Darryl couldn't quite picture anyone more dangerous than his own captain.

On one hand, Sylas fought for freedom, for the mages who lived in fear, oppressed and hunted. He was said to be standing against a broken system, trying to tear down the walls that had crushed his kind for generations.

But on the other hand…

Darryl's jaw tightened. After Sylas's escape, Demacia had plunged into chaos. The MageSeekers had doubled their efforts. Every town, every street, every whisper of magic was watched. His own home had not been spared. He could still see it, his friend and neighbor, Telion, being dragged across the town square by the MageSeekers. Screaming. Begging. Darryl had not seen him since.

That had been nearly seven moons ago.

Sylas might have been a hero to some. Maybe even to many. But to others, his rebellion had only brought more chains.

As the wind whipped past his face, Darryl risked a glance ahead. His captain was a dark figure against the pale horizon, standing tall on his massive black sword as it glided effortlessly through the air. Miss Emilia sat behind Darryl, silent, her cloak rippling in the wind.

He wondered what she was thinking. What Asta was thinking. Would his captain fight Sylas? Would he understand him instead?

Asta didn't seem the type to hate someone just for being a mage. From Darryl had seen, despite wielding designed against mages and magic, Asta genuinely loved magic and was always excited about new magic he didn't know about.

The foreigner's sword dipped slightly, as if adjusting its course. Darryl realized then that Asta was deliberately slowing down, hovering just enough to let him and Emilia keep pace.

"Stay close, Darryl," Asta's voice carried through the wind, calm but firm. The black blade beneath his feet glowed faintly, humming with restrained power. "We don't know how bad it is down there yet. I don't want you caught off guard. I'm not saying you're not ready to fight against actual opponents but I don't want your first to be your last."

Darryl swallowed hard and nodded, though he doubted Asta could see it. His heart was beating rapidly.

Emilia leaned forward slightly, her hands tightening on Darryl's shoulders. "I can sense strong magic ahead," she murmured, her voice almost lost to the wind. "Multiple signatures…"

Asta tilted his head somehow listening even through the roar of the wind around them . "Alright then, you two stay together and watch out for one another. I'll still be keeping an eye on you but that's no reason to be careless." he said simply. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, his sword shot forward. The air split around him like thunder.

"Hang on!" Darryl yelped as he forced his staff to follow. The world became a blur of wind and white stone. Emilia clung tighter, her voice steady despite the rush. "Keep control, Darryl. Focus on the flow, not the speed. You don't need to be as fast as the captain, especially since you're still learning after all."

"Easy for you to say! And you just called him Captain! I'm gonna tell him!"

"Cheeky boy, watch the front would you."

Within moments, they broke through the last stretch of sky and came upon the scene. The MageSeekers' headquarters, once the symbol of order and discipline, was a ruin. Walls cracked and burning, the great statue of the Radiant Vanguard toppled on its side.

It seemed the Black Bulls were among the first to arrive.

"Well, it seems flight is a rather fast mode of transportation after all," Emilia said lightly from behind him, her tone almost amused despite the carnage ahead.

Darryl wished he could laugh too. But between the nausea curling in his stomach and the sight before him, it was a miracle he hadn't already thrown up.

The entrance to the MageSeekers' headquarters was a graveyard of bodies, soldiers and Seekers alike. The difference between them was clear in their armor: the shining steel of Demacian guards and the dark, rune-etched plating of the Seekers. Smoke still rose from the cracks in the walls, and the air stank of ozone and blood.

It looked like Asta had already gone inside.

Darryl slowed his descent, his staff gliding lower until it hovered just above the ground. He let it drop the last couple of feet, boots hitting the cobblestones with a soft thud. Emilia dismounted with far more grace, her cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze.

Darryl swallowed, forcing his voice steady. "What do we do now?" he asked, glancing toward Emilia. She was older, it only felt natural to ask.

Emilia's gaze lingered on the shattered entrance before turning to him. Her expression was unreadable, eyes glinting in the firelight. "We do as Asta said to do," she said softly. "We stay together. You're the vanguard and I'll support you with illusions."

She drew a slender dagger from her side, its silver edge catching the dim light, and gestured forward.

Darryl hesitated for half a heartbeat before he slung his staff over his back in its retracted form, drew his sword and slowly walked into the building.

Emilia's illusions shimmered into being beside him, translucent copies of Demacian guards fanning out, their forms flickering faintly in the smoky air. This way, any attack would focus on them first.

"Stay alert," she whispered.

Darryl nodded, he stepped over the body of a guard, then another, until the corridor widened into what used to be the main chamber.

He heard footsteps, quick, frantic, and too many to count, echoing down the ruined hall.

Darryl tensed, raising his short sword and shifting into a ready stance. "Did they get past the captain?" he muttered under his breath, his grip tightening.

A cluster of figures appeared ahead, emerging from the smoke and debris. They were running straight toward him and Emilia. Darryl steadied his breathing, mana pulsing faintly beneath his skin as he prepared for the fight he thought was coming.

But Emilia's voice cut through his focus. "They're the prisoners."

The words cooled his blood instantly. Darryl blinked, lowering his sword slightly as the figures came into full view.

They didn't look like enemies. Not even close.

Their clothes, if they could be called that, were little more than rags, torn and filthy. Chains still clung to their wrists and ankles, some broken, others dragging uselessly behind them. Their bodies were thin, malnourished, their eyes wide and hollow from fear rather than hate.

Darryl swallowed. "What… what do we do?"

"Nothing," Emilia said flatly, her gaze following the desperate group as they stumbled closer. "There are only two of us. We can't guard prisoners and fight rebels at the same time."

One of the escaped mages, a boy who looked barely older than Darryl, brushed past him without so much as a glance, eyes fixed only on freedom.

The rest followed, rushing by in a blur of ragged movement and the clinking of broken chains.

Darryl watched them go, a strange heaviness settling in his chest. "They don't even care who we are…"

"They care," Emilia replied quietly, her tone unreadable. "Just not enough to stop running."

For a moment, the corridor fell silent again, save for the distant rumble of battle deeper inside the fortress.

Darryl looked toward that sound, tightening his grip on his sword. "Then I guess we keep moving."

Emilia nodded once. "We do."

Darryl and Emilia moved carefully through the corridor, stepping over debris and collapsed stone.

As they reached a broken stairway, the faint hum of Asta's voice carried upward.

Darryl blinked. "Is that… the captain?"

Emilia raised a finger to her lips and motioned for him to follow. They descended the steps quietly, the air thick with dust and the faint smell of smoke. When they rounded the final corner, the sight waiting below made Darryl pause.

Standing in the center of what used to be a grand hall, its marble floor now cracked and covered with soot was the Captain. Around him were dozens of prisoners, mages mostly, though they hardly looked the part. Some clutched each other, trembling; others stared blankly at the destruction.

"Hey! It's alright now!" Asta called out, his voice firm but reassuring. "No one's gonna hurt you anymore. You're free, got it? But I need everyone to stay calm. No running off, no panicking, we'll get you all out safely."

A few of the prisoners flinched at his tone, others hesitated. Most looked uncertain, unsure whether to believe the man who wasn't quite a MageSeeker but wasn't one of them either.

Darryl watched quietly, surprised at how easily his captain's voice carried authority without fear.

Asta turned slightly, noticing them at last. His expression softened for just a moment. "Good, you two made it." He pointed his thumb toward the doorway. "We've got survivors here. Looks like some of them were kept as prisoners, others were caught up in the fight. Emilia, can you make some illusions outside? Keep any rebels from getting too close until we're done here."

"Understood." Emilia nodded and moved off, her figure fading into the haze as illusionary Demacian soldiers began to take shape near the broken archways.

Asta then faced Darryl. "You, help me calm them down. Some of these people haven't seen daylight in months. They'll bolt the second they think they're still being hunted."

"Y-Yes, Captain." Darryl sheathed his sword, stepping forward awkwardly. The crowd of weary faces turned toward him, and he suddenly felt very small beneath their stares.

"Uh… hey," he started, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're safe now. The fighting's almost over, and Captain Asta's gonna make sure you all get out of here in one piece."

One of the older men, a mage with a long scar down his cheek, frowned. "Get out? You bastards are just gonna put us back in cages again. You MageSeeker scum."

Darryl shook his head quickly. "No! I'm, well, I'm with him." He pointed toward Asta, who gave a reassuring grin. "We're not with the Seekers either. He's… helping Demacia, but not their way."

The tension in the air shifted slightly. A few shoulders eased. A woman near the front whispered something, too low for Darryl to catch, but she still looked toward Asta with a fearful glint.

Asta crouched down to meet her eye level. "You've all been through hell," he said gently. "But I promise you, this ends today."

"No. You're wrong." The woman's voice trembled at first, but she forced strength into it, straightening her back as if bracing against a storm. "Sylas is going to save us all. He fights for us. We won't have to run anymore."

Asta exhaled slowly, not angry, just… saddened. He lowered himself a little, meeting her eyes at level, and shook his head with a quiet firmness.

"If you follow this path…" his voice softened, heavy with something like regret, "that's all you'll ever do."

The woman faltered, her earlier bravado shrinking beneath the weight of his words.

Asta rose fully, brushing off the dust on his trousers. The hall flickered with dim orange light from the fires still smoldering outside, casting long shadows behind him.

"Emilia, Darryl," he said, turning toward them, "you two look after them."

Darryl blinked. "Are you going to bring them into the Black Bulls, Captain?" For a moment, hope flickered through him. These people had done nothing wrong except be born with magic. Maybe… maybe they could finally have a place where no one hunted them.

Asta paused, and then smiled. Not his usual bright grin, but a gentler one. A reassuring one.

"They don't all strike me as the type to fight," he admitted. "But I'll speak with the High Marshal about this. I knew things were bad for mages… but this?" He gestured at the thin, hollow-eyed crowd around them. "Even I wasn't expecting something this cruel."

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"I'm sure we'll figure something out. You guys just wait for me."

Darryl gave a sharp nod, his chest tightening with a mix of pride and worry as he watched the captain turn and stride toward the deeper corridors and then he disappeared around the corner, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the broken halls.

Darryl exhaled slowly, but the moment Asta's presence vanished from the hall… it was like the air itself changed.

The prisoners shifted.

Not loudly, not enough to draw attention from outside, but enough for Darryl to feel it in his gut. A subtle ripple of unease. A tightening of shoulders. A few steps taken backward. Eyes darting to the exits. Fingers trembling near broken shackles.

The moment the captain left, whatever fragile sense of calm he'd woven through the room unraveled like wet thread.

Emilia noticed it too. She stepped closer to Darryl, her voice low.

"They're going to bolt the second they see an opening."

Darryl swallowed. "They… don't trust us."

"They shouldn't." Emilia's tone wasn't cruel, but bluntly honest. "It would be stranger if they did."

A murmur spread across the room. A cluster of younger mages pressed closer to the far wall, whispering urgently among themselves. A man with burns up his arms was eyeing a collapsed section of the hall where daylight leaked through. A woman clenched her broken chains so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Darryl raised his hands slowly, palms open. "It's okay, nobody's going to force you back down there." He gestured toward the shattered cells deeper in the ruins. "Nobody's dragging you away. Just… just stay calm, alright?"

A middle-aged man spat at the ground near Darryl's boots.

"That's what you people always say."

"I'm not a MageSeeker," Darryl said quickly.

"You're wearing their colors," the man snapped.

Darryl snarled. "I'm wearing black! I'm a Black Bull... Er."

Another woman spoke up, her voice shaking. "The boy's lying. They always bring the soft-spoken ones first. Make you think you're safe. Then the chains come back."

"We watched our friends disappear one by one," someone else said, eyes hollow. "Forgive us if we don't take your word as gospel, kid."

Kid.

Darryl clenched his jaw but didn't argue.

They weren't wrong.

"Or maybe he just wants Sylas," the scarred man muttered. "The MageSeekers tried for years to kill him. What makes you think your captain isn't here to finish the job?"

Darryl opened his mouth, then closed it.

He didn't actually know. Not the whole truth. But he knew Asta.

And that was enough for him.

"He's not here to kill anyone," Darryl said firmly. "If he wanted Sylas dead, he'd have gone straight through the ceiling with that sword of his."

A few prisoners exchanged uncertain glances.

One young girl, a kid really, maybe twelve at most, peeked out from behind an older mage. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Mister… if you're really not gonna hurt us… why does it feel like everyone outside wants to?"

Darryl's breath caught. How did he answer that? Because they did? Because this wasn't a rescue? Because It was a battlefield?

Emilia knelt a little, leveling her gaze with the girl's. "Because the world is cruel," she murmured. "But we are not the world."

The girl blinked, unsure what to do with that.

Then...

Darryl felt a sharp prick at the edge of his senses, like something tugging at his heart, forcing it to beat faster.

Steel flashed.

Darryl reacted before thought, hurling himself backward. A burst of light detonated in front of him, white, burning, searing. His eyes snapped shut on instinct, but the damage was instant.

Pain stabbed through his vision. His eyes felt like they were on fire.

He heard Emilia shout, a short, startled cry, followed by a heavy thud that made his stomach drop.

Chaos erupted around him. Startled cries tore from the prisoners as they scattered in blind panic, scrambling away from the unseen attacker.

"MageSeeker!" someone shouted.

""No, no, fuck! That's a Noxian assassin! Run!" another voice yelled, raw with terror. "I'll try to hold him off! I... I was eighth battalion before they locked me up!"

Noxian?

Darryl's thoughts spun wildly.

'An assassin? Here? And they took out Miss Emilia, just like that? What do I do? I can't see... I can't... damn it!"

His eyes still stung violently. He couldn't see, only the swirling afterimages of stars exploding across his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open again, but it only made the pain flare sharper.

'Was that a light spell?'

He remembered the time Emilia had blinded him during training, using nothing but illusionary light, how it filled his vision with harmless stars for minutes.

Stars danced violently across his vision, exploding every time he blinked. The pain wasn't like Emilia's training illusions, those left him dazzled but functional. This was different. Every blink sent a fresh bolt of agony down his temples. His eyes rebelled against being closed, as if even the darkness burned.

He forced himself to move toward the voice of the man who had claimed to be part of some battalion. He had to protect them, he had to. Asta would still be watching, after all.

As he drew closer, the man's voice cracked in shock. "Kid! Your… your eyes!"

Darryl felt something warm running down his cheeks. Was he crying? He raised a trembling hand to his face, and pain exploded through him, sharper than before. 'My… eyes.'

If anyone could see him now, they would have looked on in horror and pity. Blood streamed down his face, a single, jagged line slicing across both eyes, bright and horrifying against the pale skin of his cheeks.

"Aaaggghhh!!!" he screamed, the sound tearing from his throat, raw and ragged, reverberating off the ruined walls around them.

 

[trashtaker]

Was that Talon?

 

[SaberGlory]

Asta ran with long, purposeful strides, fast but not at the blinding speed he usually used in battle. Every few steps he paused just long enough to glance into side rooms, checking for prisoners who hadn't already been taken by the rebels.

Although…

"Why the hell are there so many damn stairs?" he muttered, skidding around another corner and staring down yet another descending spiraling flight. "How far down did these people dig?"

He groaned but kept moving, boots thudding on the stone steps. Despite the situation, a spark of excitement flickered inside him. This finally felt like something interesting. Something worth his time.

This world really was strange.

Magic, actual magic, was rare here. Rare, feared, and even hated in some places. To Asta, who had grown up surrounded by spells, grimoires, magical beasts, and a kingdom built on mana, the idea still felt upside-down.

Especially in a country like Demacia.

He still couldn't believe that his half-baked declaration when he first arrived had earned him a position of real authority here. But he wasn't naive. Demacia was trying to use him. Of course they were.

Not that it mattered.

Anything they threw at him, he would shatter. And if he couldn't, then he'd break his limits first, and then shatter whatever stood in his way.

He had considered leaving Demacia more than once. But after speaking with his brother, he realized that if Finral ever came looking, he'd start here. And Asta wasn't sure he wanted the Black Bulls walking into a country that despised magic and somehow managing to erase it from the map out of sheer chaos.

Not because he feared for the Bulls, they'd be fine.

He feared for Demacia.

So he stayed. And if he was going to stay, then he was going to change things. Show these people what real magic looked like. Build something new.

Maybe even train the first Wizard King of this world.

The thought made him grin despite himself as he bounded down the next set of stairs.

Asta closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the faint signatures of life below. "I can still sense people down there… maybe there's a dungeon," he murmured before simply stepping off the edge and dropping.

He hit the ground twelve seconds later, boots touching down with a soft thud that kicked up a ring of dust. When the haze settled, the first thing he saw were bodies, uniformed guards sprawled lifeless around the stone floor.

He had definitely found a prison.

Ahead of him, figures scrambled in panic. Most wore ragged clothes, the same kind of civilians he'd seen earlier trying to flee the chaos above. Prisoners. But not all of them.

Asta tilted his head to the side as a boot cut through the air where his face had been. He casually caught the attacker by the throat with one hand.

"That's not gonna work, you know," he said flatly.

"Grk..!" The man choked out, teeth grinding as Asta looked him over. Dark-skinned, tall, heavily built. A blue cloak draped his shoulders, golden pauldrons glinting even in the dim dungeon light.

He looked exactly like...

"A MageSeeker?" Asta muttered. The confusion creased his brow. Why would a MageSeeker be breaking into a MageSeeker stronghold?

"I'm not part of those psychopaths and their foolish ways," the man growled. "I left the Order after I saw the evils they were committing. Don't you dare call me a MageSeeker again."

Asta blinked, a little surprised at the man's conviction. "…Okay? Still arresting you, though," he said, shrugging. "You've murdered a lot of people and caused a whole lot of chaos up top."

The man dangled in Asta's grip, feet kicking a few inches above the floor. His eyes narrowed as he took in Asta's cloak.

"That cloak… you... you're that foreign mage, aren't you?" he rasped. "Why are you stopping me? Stopping us? Look behind me, these people are innocents. Their only crime is the magic in their veins."

Asta flicked his gaze past the man.

More prisoners stood farther down the corridor, far more than the group he had escorted earlier with Darryl and Emilia. Some clung to the iron bars of their cells; others huddled together in wary clusters. All of them watched him like cornered animals waiting to see if he would strike.

Asta turned his attention back to the struggling man. "What's your name?"

"Gideon," the man managed between clenched teeth. "I used to be a MageSeeker… but only under duress. They held my husband hostage to keep me in line."

Asta's expression darkened, though his grip didn't loosen. "What do you plan to do with these people?"

Gideon straightened as much as he could. "We'll take those who want to fight with us. The rest will join another group of mages outside Demacia, people who can hide them, protect them."

Asta raised a brow. "You're awfully cooperative."

"Of course I am." Gideon let out a strained, humorless grin. "You did something no one thought possible. Demacia acknowledged your magic. They're scrambling to save face, pretending they're tolerant, but they're terrified of you. And the MageSeekers? They've gone too far. They need to pay for what they've done."

"You think I'm going to help you with that?" Asta asked, voice steady.

Gideon shook his head. "I don't know what you'll do. What I do know is the MageSeekers. They'll never accept you. They're furious because of you, and they'll come after you the moment they can. They'll use anything, anyone, to get to you."

Asta's mind flickered briefly to Darryl and Emilia somewhere above… but he pushed the thought aside.

"Where's Sylas?" he asked, voice dropping into something colder. "Tell me where he is."

---

When Asta reached the final chamber, his jaw was clenched so tightly it was a miracle his teeth hadn't cracked.

The descent had been a nightmare, twisted corpses lining the halls, bodies warped into grotesque shapes that no longer resembled anything human. And yet… their fading Ki told him the truth.

They had been human. Once.

"He's in there," Asta muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice echoed faintly as he stepped into the chamber.

The room was dim, lit only by flickering lanterns mounted high on the stone walls. Chains were strewn across the floor like discarded snakes. In the center lay a massive mound, one of those malformed beings, but larger, heavier, more violently transformed than the rest.

Kneeling beside it was a man.

He was bare-chested, his muscular arms wrapped in heavy chains that wound around silver-and-gold gauntlets. A large monocle hung from a chain at his neck, glinting dully in the low light. His long, unkempt hair obscured his face as he bowed over the mound.

Asta didn't speak. He didn't move. He simply waited, letting the man grieve.

At last, Sylas spoke, voice low and tight.
"You're not a MageSeeker." He didn't lift his head. "Have you come to stop me regardless?"

Asta stepped forward. "My name is Asta. Captain of the Black Bulls Magic Knight squad."

Sylas's shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he turned his head, revealing eyes rimmed with exhaustion and fury. "Asta… The foreigner. You're him."

Asta gave a single nod.

"I saw your work," Sylas murmured, looking past him as though recalling the memory. "The sky had never looked so beautiful. You made Demacia tremble. You showed them who truly stands at the top of the food chain."

Asta shook his head, expression hardening.
"You missed the point, Sylas. I don't blame you though, considering you don't know what happened before all that."

"Missed the point…" Sylas whispered as he slowly rose to his feet. The chains wrapped around his arms rattled, heavy links dragging across the stone.

"Missed the point!?" he roared, and the entire chamber seemed to vibrate with the sound.

His chains slammed against the floor with every furious motion.

"What is the point then!?" Sylas' eyes flared with a violent violet sheen as he screamed. "They look down on us! They call us diseases, creatures to be purged! I rotted in a cell for fifteen years for something I had no control over. Fifteen years, alone, with nothing but my thoughts… and my hatred."

Asta shifted lightly to the side, refusing to break eye contact.

"They believe themselves superior, yet the truth couldn't be further!" Sylas continued, voice cracking under the mixture of rage and grief. "Mages are the superior ones. We carry the truth of the world in our veins. And they fear us for it! I'll tear down the MageSeekers, and after that, the last of the royal line. I'll rebuild Demacia the right way."

Madness and pain twisted together in his eyes.

"You're in mourning, man," Asta said calmly. "You need to breathe. I get where you're coming from. He must've been important to you."

Sylas's chest heaved as he sucked in a shaky breath. "Killan never did anything wrong. He wasn't even a mage!" His voice broke. "And yet they turned him into this monster. All because he cared. Because he had a conscience. They twisted him into a mindless beast… and I..."
He trembled. "I had to kill him. They made me kill Killan."

Asta lowered his gaze for a moment. "They'll pay for this," he said quietly. "I'll see to that. But you still need to turn yourself in. Whatever the MageSeekers did, you're still wanted for multiple crimes, including the murder of the late king."

"Jarvan III?" Sylas frowned, almost offended. "As much as I'd like to take credit, I wasn't the one who struck him down. He was already dead when I arrived."

Asta nodded slightly. "I see."

Sylas stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.
"You expect me to turn myself in?" he asked, incredulous. "Not on your life."

Sylas took a slow step forward, the heavy chains dragging behind him like hungry metal serpents. His expression twisted... "You, Asta… you could end them with a single swing. You don't understand what you mean to the mages out there. You're proof." His voice softened into something dangerously earnest. "Proof that we don't need to hide. Proof that magic isn't a curse. Prof that Demacia was wrong."

Asta's grip on his sword tightened, but he still didn't strike.

Sylas saw that, and pressed further.

"Fight with me," he said, the words rolling out with a leader's conviction. "We liberate the mages. We destroy the MageSeekers. We tear down the rotten throne that's been choking this country for generations. Together, we can build something better than these hypocrites ever dreamed."

Asta exhaled slowly. "Sylas..."

"You already know they'll turn on you," Sylas cut in sharply. "You already know the nobles fear you. You already know the MageSeekers want you dead. They will betray you the second you stop being useful." His eyes narrowed. "Why protect a kingdom that would gladly burn you alive if they thought they could?"

Asta didn't speak.

Sylas took another step, almost close enough to touch him. "You're not just powerful. You're inspiring." His voice dropped into something almost reverent. "You could stand at the head of a new age. Magic reborn. The oppressed rising. A world shaped by those with the will to change it."

He lifted his chin. "Stand with me, Asta. Fight with me. Free them with me."

For a moment, the chamber fell silent.

Only the sound of distant dripping water and the slow scrape of Sylas's chains.

Asta finally opened his eyes fully, and his presence surged through the room, sharp, bright, cutting through the heavy tension like a blade of wind.

"You talk like you're freeing people," Asta said quietly, "but what you are is someone who wants revenge so badly he's willing to burn the world for it."

Sylas's expression hardened instantly. "Revenge? This is justice long coming."

"You don't know the difference anymore," Asta replied.

Sylas clenched his fists, chains rattling like a warning. "Don't pretend you understand my pain."

"No," Asta admitted. "I understand it alright. I also understand something else."

Sylas blinked. "And what's that?"

Asta stepped forward, just one step, but it shifted the entire air of the room.

"I understand what happens when power blinds you. When anger becomes the only thing you see." His voice lowered. "I've seen people like that. I've fought people like that. I've saved people like that."

Sylas scoffed. "Save me, then. Go on."

Asta shook his head. "You don't want saving."

Something in Sylas finally snapped, not loudly, not dramatically, but quietly… like a glass cracking under too much pressure.

"Then I guess we're done talking," Sylas whispered.

The chains around his arms rose like awakened beasts... Only to drop back down like the lifeless chains that they were. Whatever magic that was running through dissipating into nothingness.

"What?" Sylas looked down at his chains, eyes widening. 'The magic… it's gone. All of the magic I absorbed into the petricite shackles.'

He snapped his gaze back to Asta, a strange excitement flickering in his eyes. "So this is AntiMagic… the true bane of all things magical."

In the next instant he lunged, bursting forward with all the strength his body could muster.

Asta shifted with a single, lazy step, letting Sylas slide past him.

Clunk.

Asta blinked and glanced at his wrist, now wrapped in a length of chain.

Sylas straightened, lips curling into a confident grin as he pulled the chain taut between them.
"Unfortunately for you, overconfidence is something both mages and MageSeekers share."

He reached into the link, tugging at the arcane essence tied to the chain. 'With AntiMagic added to my arsenal, even the mages who side with those MageSeeker hypocrites will fall easily…'

But then, nothing. A void. A dead silence where there should have been power.

Sylas's grin faltered. 'What? I can't feel anything… I should be able to draw his AntiMagic into myself. Why isn't it working?'

Asta tilted his head like a confused puppy.
"Hey, why are you just standing there? What're you trying to do?"

Sylas quickly unlatched the chain from Asta's wrist, stepping back as a wary look crossed his face. "You… You don't have any magic."

Asta raised a brow. "Yeah. That's been established already."

"But..!" Sylas practically shouted. "You use AntiMagic! I saw your sword swallow the sky!"

Asta shrugged. "AntiMagic isn't magic. Duh. And people call me the idiot."

Chains snapped forward like living steel, lashing out from two angles at once, overhead, underfoot, straight at Asta's throat, faster than any normal human could follow.

Asta didn't move until the last moment. The first chain reached him bounced off the back of his hand as he smacked it into the trajectory of the second.

Sylas froze mid-strike. Both chains wrapped around each other as they clanged back before him.

Asta lifted a finger. "That's not gonna work either."

"SHUT UP!" Sylas roared.

He swung with everything he had, chains whipping in unpredictable spirals that tore into the ground, gouging into the stone.

Even without magic, Sylas was strong.

Strong enough that any average person would have died three times by now. Even the best soldiers would have been sent flying.

But Asta simply stepped around each strike, boots tapping lightly against the floor.

"You're unfocused," Asta said, weaving past a chain that would've bisected an ox. "Your movements are all over the place."

"Silence!" Sylas snarled, slamming his foot into the ground hard enough to crack stone. "I've waited fifteen years for this moment. I won't be lectured by a child!"

He surged forward and caught Asta's cloak with one hand, dragging him in and swinging a fist wrapped in thick steel.

Asta let the punch hit him.

The impact shook the entire chamber, dust raining from the ceiling.

Sylas's eyes widened. His fist trembled, bones screaming beneath the force of the rebound.

Asta looked at him. "That all?"

Sylas stared at him in disbelief. "What… what are you made of?"

Asta didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed Sylas's arm, gently, almost sympathetically, and tightened his grip.

Sylas gasped as Asta's strength locked him in place, chains rattling helplessly.

"You're strong," Asta admitted. "Really strong. And you've been through hell. I get that."

Sylas's jaw clenched, fury boiling under the surface.

"But that..." Asta pulled him in close, their eyes inches apart. "...doesn't give you the right to..."

Fwoosh!

Asta leaped back as Sylas was suddenly swallowed by a ring of violet fire.

"Now what…?" he muttered, eyes narrowing.

"This… this magic…" Sylas whispered, staring at the flames curling around him. "The Veiled Lady…" His voice trembled with recognition, right before instinct slammed into him like a hammer.

Because when he looked back up, Asta was already holding a black katana raised high above his head.

"Anti-Magic… Demon-Slasher: Black Slash!"

Asta brought the blade down in a single fluid motion, releasing a sweeping arc of black energy that tore across the chamber. The ground split. The walls screamed. A deep gouge carved through the stone, slicing the chamber nearly in two.

But Sylas was gone, ripped away by the violet fire an instant before impact.
Not a trace of him remained.

Asta lowered his sword, frowning. "That's strange… right, Liebe? Someone used magic to pull him out, even with AntiMagic filling the room."

He slid the katana back into his grimoire and let out a quiet breath. "I guess Sylas escaped. As far as first missions go… that's not great."

His gaze drifted to the twisted corpse on the floor, the remains of Killan. A slow, heavy sigh escaped him.

"They don't deserve this. No one does. We'll give him a proper burial."

Asta turned to leave, boots crunching softly on shattered stone. As he retraced his steps up the winding corridors, he noticed something else missing.

The prisoners were gone. Gideon too.

"Looks like they slipped out as well," he murmured.

It took a while to climb back to the upper levels, where he'd left Darryl and Emilia with the crowd of freed captives.

But when he reached the entrance… he stopped.

The hallway was nearly empty.

Of the dozens of prisoners he'd left behind, only one small girl remained, standing beside Darryl and Emilia.

Emilia looked worn down, her hair disheveled, clothing torn. She kept one steadying hand on Darryl's shoulder.

Darryl himself was worse. Blood streaked across his cheeks, and he rubbed at his eyes with trembling fingers. He gasped softly when he noticed Asta entering.

He turned toward him, voice wavering.

"Captain…?"

And Asta finally saw his eyes.

And he went completely still.

 

[Phylonemios]

Ah, shit will be going down.

Thank you for writing !

 

[SaberGlory]

"Okay." Darryl heard Asta call out from somewhere above him. He stood on the small earthen platform he had shaped himself, trying not to wobble. "Since somebody thinks he's a genius and doesn't have the patience to master what he already knows, I guess I have no choice but to kick-start your most important training."

Darryl swallowed, resisting the urge to scratch at the black blindfold tied firmly over his eyes. He couldn't see a thing, and somehow, that made Asta's voice sound even worse. It wasn't coming from one direction. It was everywhere. Above him, behind him, beside him, like the captain was speaking from every corner of the field at once.

'He's probably moving super fast again. You can't fool me, Captain,' Darryl thought nervously.

Asta's voice echoed again. "Before we begin, why don't you, Darryl, explain to our lovely audience, the beautiful Miss Emilia, what Ki is. You know… the thing I explained to you three times this morning."

A drop of sweat slid beneath the blindfold and vanished. Darryl's mind scrambled, flipping through the memory like a messy notebook. He barely remembered the exact words Asta had used.

"Uhm… okay. Here I go." He lifted his chin. "Ki is the bodily energy people give off. From… from how they look, no, how they move. Their breathing. Their footsteps. Their scent. Even the tension in their muscles." As he spoke, the explanation settled into place, the memory becoming clearer. He straightened a little. "It's all of that together."

There was a pause.

Then Asta spoke again. "Huh. Not bad. And here I thought you weren't listening. I only said it once, not three times, and you still remembered." His voice grew suspicious. "You're starting to creep me out, kid."

Darryl couldn't help the grin that stretched across his face.

A firm hand suddenly landed on his shoulder, making him jump. "Feel that Ki," Asta said, his tone shifting back to serious instruction. "Sense it. Move according to what you perceive. And stop grinning, you look gross."

Darryl let out an exaggerated whine. "Captain!"

"With enough mastery, you can even sense natural objects, and eventually nature itself. But that's not what we're working on today."

The hand on Darryl's shoulder disappeared, and suddenly Asta was nowhere. Or everywhere. Darryl couldn't tell. The blindfold over his eyes felt twice as suffocating now.

"Today," Asta continued, voice drifting around him like a phantom, "we're going to introduce you to the feeling of Ki… by hitting you with rocks until you learn it. And you better learn it… or you'll die."

Darryl let out a strained chuckle. "C'mon, Captain, you're joking, right? That was a joke… right?"

Silence.

A deep, unfriendly silence.

"Righ-Oof!"

Something crashed into his stomach with brutal force. Pain exploded across his midsection, first a sharp punch of impact, then a heavy, settling ache that made his knees buckle.

"Hah..!" Darryl wheezed, clutching at his abdomen. "Th-that hurt. I… wasn't ready."

"Life doesn't work that way, kid," Asta's voice murmured, this time right in front of him.

"Gah!"

Pain erupted across Darryl's back as another stone struck him, knocking the air out of his lungs.

"It sure as hell didn't wait for me to be ready," Asta said, voice sharp. "And it's not going to wait for you. Use your senses, Darryl. All of them."

Darryl sucked in a slow, trembling breath. His body screamed at him to curl into a ball, to protect himself, but he forced his shoulders back instead. He couldn't defend what he couldn't sense. He had to try.

He heard a faint whistling from the left and instinctively darted right.

"Gah!" The rock slammed into his knee, sending a spike of agony up his leg.

"Not just your ears, Darryl!" Asta barked. "You have to feel it."

Darryl nodded quickly, straightening despite the throbbing pain spreading through his limbs. He braced himself, letting every sound, every shift of air, every subtle ripple wash over him.

"Gah!"

Another hit. His shoulder jerked back.

"Guh!"

A sharp strike against his ribs.

"Bwuh!"

A rock clipped his jaw, making stars sparkle behind his blindfold.

A hundred and twenty-eight rocks later, Darryl was shaking, his breath shallow and ragged as he fought to hold back tears. Every inch of his body throbbed; each bruise pulsed like a tiny heartbeat under his skin.

"I guess that's it for today, kid," Asta finally said. There was a faint hint of disappointment in his voice, barely there, but unmistakable.

"No. No… I can do it. I can do it, captain!" Darryl forced out, desperation leaking into every word.

"Nah," Asta replied. "You need rest. And besides, I'm all out of rocks to throw. We'll pick this up when you're back in shape. You're sporting some serious welts."

Darryl exhaled shakily and stepped off the earthen platform. "Yes, captain…" He raised a hand toward the blindfold and began to pull it loose.

And then, he suddenly felt the urge to move out of the way.

He ducked.

Boom!

The ground erupted beside him, the shockwave rattling his teeth. Dust exploded upward, showering him in grit. Darryl yanked off the blindfold, and froze.

A fresh crater had been gouged into the wall just inches from where his skull had been. A single rock sat in its center, still trembling from the force of impact.

"'Genius' doesn't even start to cover it," Asta said suddenly, standing beside him as if he'd materialized from thin air. Darryl had no idea when he'd moved.

"You went and learned it in a single day. And just yesterday you got your broom and started flying. You're pretty amazing, you know."

Darryl's eye twitched violently. "That would have killed me!"

Asta burst into loud, unapologetic laughter. "Well, at least we know your Ki sense works perfectly when your life is in serious danger!"

Darryl groaned, rubbing his face. "I want to be able to use it at will. Like you."

"You will…" Asta said, ruffling his hair with a firm, reassuring hand. "I know you will."

---

"Aaarrrggghhh!" Darryl screamed, both hands flying to his face as white-hot pain tore through his eyes. 'My eyes! My eyes! My eyes!'

He staggered backward, tripping over his own feet before crashing onto the ground. His short sword slipped from his grasp and clattered uselessly beside him.

"Damnit!" the older man from the Eighth Battalion barked somewhere ahead, followed by a heavy thud and a strained groan.

"Killick!" another voice cried out, thick with fear.

'The assassin… he's going to kill everyone!' Darryl's thoughts spiraled in panic as he writhed on the dirt, blind and helpless.

Instinct jolted through him, and he rolled aside just before forcing himself upright, hands still clamped to his burning eyes. 'I'm going to die. Everyone is going to die. Captain, please… save us. You said you'd be watching over us…'

He hesitated.

'That's right… Captain said he'd keep an eye on us. But he isn't here. Why? Is his battle worse than he expected? Is this a test? What am I supposed to do? I can't see. I… I'll never see again.'

Screams from the mages pierced the air, sharp and terrified. His chest tightened.

'Everyone is in danger. They're all going to die… Miss Emilia, she's hurt. She's going to die. Captain gave me one job, to protect everyone. And they're all going to die.'

A sudden spike of dread stabbed through his senses.

Darryl didn't have time to think.

He flipped backward, rolling across the ground as his hands finally tore away from his face, reacting to a threat he couldn't see but could feel closing in.

(At least we know your Ki sense works perfectly when your life is in danger.)

(I want to be able to use it at will, like you.)

(You will… I know you will.)

"Stop!" Darryl shouted.

The word ripped out of him, and the room fell into an unnatural silence.

Then he felt faint pricks at the edges of his mind, like distant sparks. Scattered points of light pulsed around him.

"Stop, assassin!" he barked again.

He focused on the lights hard, and immediately felt one shift, darting closer. Darryl threw himself to the right, a thin burn slicing across his cheek as a dagger skimmed past.

The prick of light swelled slightly as he concentrated. 'Still blurry…'

It lunged at him again.

In an instant, the light stretched, rushing toward him like a spear. Time thickened, slowing to syrup around Darryl.

Mana swirled inside his chest.

Energy surged outward, racing down his legs and into the ground. Unseen waves of magic rippled across the floor, spreading forward like a shockwave. They washed through the entire room, passing beneath every foot and boot, climbing up the ankles and legs of everyone standing.

The assassin was no exception. The wave raced up his body, into the arm holding the dagger now aimed directly at Darryl's heart.

Darryl pivoted aside just as the blade thrust forward. The assassin's momentum carried him through empty air, slipping past where Darryl had stood an instant before.

Darryl turned toward him, slow and deliberate, blood trailing from his sliced eyelids and dripping down his cheeks like crimson tears.

The assassin skid to a halt, boots scraping against stone as he twisted sharply, clearly shocked that his strike had missed. Darryl felt the prick of that light shift again, sharpening, narrowing with the promise of danger.

He didn't need eyes to know the man was glaring at him.

In fact, he didn't need eyes at all.

He could see the assassin's outline, clearer than sight, sharper than memory. He knew exactly how far the man was from him, how many steps he needed to close the distance, even the man's weight just from the pressure he applied to the stone floor.

Anything connected to the earth appeared to him vividly, etched into a mental landscape of shifting vibrations and echoes. And that wasn't counting the other sense blooming inside him, the scattered sparks of Ki filling the room. Every frightened breath. Every trembling heartbeat. Every flicker of life.

Combined together, and Darryl was seeing the world from a whole new perspective.

'Emilia's okay!' he cheered internally, relief washing through him. Her heartbeat, was steady, unlike the prisoners, whose frantic pulses hammered against the floor. He forced himself not to dwell on the difference.

He had no time.

The assassin drew Darryl's attention again, a short man, but built lean and tightly corded with muscle. Thirteen blades on him. Two longer than the others. Liquid in the left pouch, probably poison. A weighted chain around his ankle.

Darryl swallowed. 'I want to scream… but if I try to talk again, I'll cry or puke.'

He took a step back... And the assassin moved instantly.

A blur of killing intent crashed toward him, but Darryl was already reacting. His back hand whipped upward, slapping the dagger-wielding arm aside as he pivoted cleanly out of the way.

The assassin expected that.

A second blade snapped forward, jutting from a hidden sheath on his wrist.

But Darryl already knew. He'd felt the tension coil in the man's arm before it even moved. He dipped his head, letting the blade whistle harmlessly above him, then twisted his body and brought his heel down sharply onto the assassin's knee, just as the man tried to drive it into Darryl's gut.

All of it happened in under two seconds.

Darryl shifted his weight, bracing himself against the leg still pressing on the assassin's knee. Pulses danced across his skin like heat, guiding him.

The assassin murmured something under his breath but Darryl both heard and felt his words. "What the fuck?"

The assassin leaped backwards, and Darryl didn't pursue, his closed eyes following him.

Suddenly the air changed, as the assassin seemed to take a deep breath. Then he looked directly at Darryl while tilting his head. The air charged with lethal intention.

---

The chamber fell into a heavy silence as the two figures regarded one another, each waiting for the other to move first.

The assassin broke the stillness.

He leaned forward and exploded into a sprint, crossing the distance in three sharp steps before launching himself into the air. His dagger shot out in a straight, calculated thrust aimed directly for Darryl's heart.

Darryl slid one foot back and arched his upper body just enough for the blade to whistle past his chest. Before the assassin even landed, Darryl stepped to the side, letting the man surge past him.

But the assassin flowed with the momentum, spinning sharply. One of the longer daggers flashed into his hand as he whipped it backward in a wide, cutting arc.

Darryl shifted again, barely a movement, his body slipping out of reach as if he knew the strike was coming long before it began. A second glint of metal followed as a short dagger flew toward his head, but Darryl simply tilted his head and felt the blade rush past his cheek.

Now dual-wielding his two longest daggers, the assassin lunged.

He became a flurry of motion, arms slashing up, down, across, stabbing forward with ruthless precision. Even his legs joined the assault, knees and kicks fired off between attacks to break Darryl's balance.

Yet Darryl avoided every strike with minimal effort. A small step back here. A lean to the side there. His movements were almost lazy and efficient, unhurried, as if he anticipated each attack before it began.

The assassin slashed again, and Darryl raised his forearm, catching the man's wrist and redirecting the blade harmlessly away.

The assassin used the contact to twist, spinning into a sudden high kick meant for Darryl's head.

A sharp gust brushed Darryl's face as the leg missed him by inches, he had already moved, slipping out of range like he'd simply stepped out of someone's shadow.

The assassin landed lightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he lunged again with a straight stab.

This time, Darryl didn't retreat.

He caught the assassin's wrist, pushed it downward decisively, and then drove his shoulder forward in a powerful, controlled check that sent the assassin stumbling back.

The assassin's movements grew more impatient. He snapped out a kick, then another, then a third in rapid succession.

Darryl dipped under the first, slid aside from the second, and stepped back just far enough for the third to cut through empty air.

Then the assassin shifted. He dropped into a low sprinting stance, muscles coiling, posture tightening.

And in the next instant, he was gone.

He burst forward in a razor-straight line, speed blurring his outline into nothing more than a streak of motion.

But Darryl had already moved.

It was subtle, so subtle it almost looked like coincidence, but he had stepped aside before the assassin even lunged, already knowing the exact moment the man's muscles would fire.

The assassin didn't slow. He hit the wall feet-first, rebounded in an instant, shot upward to the ceiling, pushed off again, and then struck the wall behind Darryl. He was so fast that even the spectators didn't realize he had ever left the first wall.

And Darryl… was still facing that first wall.

Still looking the wrong direction.

The assassin lunged for Darryl's exposed back, dagger drawn for a lethal strike.

And then to the assassin, his hand suddenly grew ten times bigger as it filled the assassin's vision.

Only one person saw what truly happened.

Emilia, still lying on the ground, watched with wide, disbelieving eyes as Darryl suddenly pivoted halfway around. His arm stretched out in a smooth, almost lazy motion, then wrapped around the assassin's wrist mid-thrust, coiling around the arm that held the dagger and in the same breath, clamped firmly over the assassin's face.

All of it done without Darryl ever fully turning.

All of it done while he was still looking the wrong way.

With a low grunt, Darryl twisted at the waist and hauled the assassin into a full-body spin. Momentum whipped the man off his feet, and Darryl brought him crashing down with such force that the stone floor fractured beneath the impact.

Before the dust even settled, the ground beneath them softened like clay. The assassin sank waist-deep in an instant, then chest-deep, until only his head remained above the surface. The stone hardened again with a dull crack.

The assassin was trapped. Completely immobilized.

The chamber remained utterly silent. From the first step of their standoff to the moment the assassin was pinned, barely thirty seconds had passed.

Darryl's knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed onto his backside. His breaths came uneven and shaky, his chest rising and falling in trembling waves.

One of the prisoners finally dared to look around. Seeing no more threats, he scrambled to his feet and bolted for the exit. That single movement broke whatever trance the others were in. One by one, they rushed past Darryl and Emilia in a panicked wave, fleeing into the hallway beyond.

Darryl didn't even have the strength to call after them. He simply exhaled, long and exhausted, then let himself fall flat onto his back.

Only then did he notice it, the faint point of light still standing a few feet away.

Through his earth sense, he felt the outline: a girl, slightly taller than him, standing perfectly still. Watching.

Slowly, Darryl pushed himself upright and turned in her direction so she would know he was facing her. The girl stepped back a little, a subtle shift that told him she was nervous.

"Hi," he said softly.

"Hi," she replied, equally unsure.

"Darryl." Emilia's voice called from behind him. He turned to see her struggling to stand, her body unsteady but determined. "Are you… alright? What happened to the assassin?"

"Emilia!" he shouted, rushing forward and pulling her into a tight embrace. Relief washed through him in heavy waves. "You're okay. You're okay." He repeated the words over and over, as if saying them enough would make them true. "The assassin… he's defeated. I beat him."

She wrapped her arms around him, her own trembling evident. "You did? That's… amazing. And seriously creepy. I think Asta might be right about you."

"Not you too," Darryl laughed, though his voice cracked slightly as tears streamed freely down his face. "And it's Captain, not Asta."

"No way," she said firmly, pulling back just enough to look at him. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you in the fight."

Darryl shook his head, pressing a hand gently against her shoulder. "No… it's alright. I'm just glad you're okay."

Her eyes widened, fear and concern flashing across her face. "Darryl… your eyes."

He swallowed hard, trying to push past the pain that still burned behind his eyelids. "It's… it's fine. I'll be okay. I… I won without them, so I… I…" His voice broke completely as fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. "I'll never see again."

"Darryl…" Emilia stepped closer, her voice soft but resolute. "There is a way… I can heal your eyes. I've kept it for myself in case I was ever injured, but… for you, I can do it now. If we act soon."

He shook his head weakly. "Emilia… you don't have to..."

"Let me do this. Please," she interrupted, kneeling in front of him. Her hands hovered over his face, steady and sure despite the tension. "I wasn't able to help in the fight, so let me help you now. It's going to be very painful. Are you ready?"

Darryl exhaled shakily, trying to steady himself. "Yeah… I'm ready. Thank you… Emilia."

"No problem," Emilia said softly, opening her palm to reveal a small, glimmering bubble. Inside it floated a sigil, something that would make even the most hardened veterans in Noxus blanch in disgust.

She raised the bubble slowly and rested it gently on Darryl's left eye.

A sharp spasm ran through his body as pain ripped across his face. His limbs shook uncontrollably, every muscle tensing as if his body were resisting the magic.

Emilia didn't flinch. She used the moment to bring forth another bubble, identical in shape and glow, and carefully placed it on his right eye.

Darryl's trembling intensified, his body quivering violently against her hands. Emilia held him firmly, her voice steady and calm. "It's alright, Darryl. You're alright. I'm here. Emilia's here."

Gradually, the spasms subsided. His body sagged against hers as she gently guided him forward, placing a reassuring hand on his back.

His eyes itched uncontrollably. Against his better judgment, he rubbed them, and as he did, a sudden, heavy presence slammed into his senses from deeper within the building.

It was unmistakable. The weight of the aura was immense, unmistakably his captain.

Darryl opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the lingering sting. One eye glimmered green, the other red, a vivid testament to the lingering effects of Emilia's sigil.

He barely managed a whisper, voice thick with awe and relief: "Captain…"

 

[trashtaker]

Aw hell nah please don't tell me she turned Daryll into a sleeper agent