Flaw Of RuneTerra (Black Clover X League Of Legends)

[SaberGlory]

"I'm sorry, what?" Cithria blinked, staring in disbelief as the Sword-Captain all but shouted his surprise at the report.

She herself could hardly believe what the Demacian soldier had just delivered.

"Castle Wrenwall was attacked. By mages," the soldier repeated, voice steady despite the tension that hung in the air. "I bear a message from the High Marshal. She requests your presence following the meeting of the Silver Council."

Garen gave a single, sharp nod. "When?"

"At second bell, sir," the messenger replied.

Without wasting another breath, Garen strode toward the council chamber. He arrived at the antechamber just as the last of the nobles were filing out, the toll of the second bell echoing faintly through the halls.

As though on cue, one of the great council doors swung open in silence. The two guards stationed at either side struck the butts of their halberds against the marble floor in salute, and an attendant motioned Garen forward.

The chamber beyond was austere, dominated by an octagonal table at its center. But Garen's eyes were drawn not to the furniture, but to the three figures waiting beside it.

High Marshal Tianna Crownguard stood foremost, his father's sister, and the de facto commander of Demacia's armies. At her side was Prince Jarvan IV, heir of the late king and Garen's closest friend.

And standing with them was Lord Eldred. As always, half of his stern, regal face was concealed by a golden mask, and a petricite disk inscribed with geometric runes rested against his breastplate. He was the leader of the MageSeekers, and his mere presence carried an air of severity.

A scatter of papers lay across the council table, some already half-crumpled from restless handling. Jarvan held one of them in his hand, his expression strained, unease flickering in the tightness of his jaw.

Tianna and Eldred turned toward Garen at once, the High Marshal's gaze sharp and measuring, the Mageseeker's hidden eyes unreadable behind his mask. Jarvan followed a heartbeat later, slower, more reluctant.

Garen saluted in the traditional Demacian fashion, crossing his arms over his chest with clenched fists before stepping forward to stand across from them. The weight of their scrutiny pressed heavily on his shoulders, and he forced himself not to look away.

Jarvan sighed quietly, as though resigned to what was about to unfold.

"Strength through discipline," Tianna said by way of greeting, her voice clipped and formal.

"Honour through diligence," Garen answered without hesitation, ignoring Jarvan's weary exhale just as his aunt and Eldred surely did.

"I assume you've heard the news," Jarvan began, eager to dispense with ceremony.

"Only that Wrenwall was attacked, my prince," Garen admitted. "By mages, no less."

"Indeed." Jarvan extended the document in his hand. "Two mages of immense power. They left Castle Wrenwall in ruins."

Garen's eyes skimmed the parchment, narrowing as the report grew more confounding. "They were… fighting each other?"

"Fools, the both of them," Eldred snarled, his voice edged with contempt. "To flaunt their power so brazenly in our very lands, it is an insult."

"But why?" Garen pressed. "They must know they'd be hunted down at once. Wouldn't they be wiser to remain hidden?"

"Who can fathom how their accursed ilk thinks?" Eldred spat, his scowl twisting behind the half-mask.

Garen forced himself not to look at the Mageseeker too directly. Eldred's words cut too close to the thought he fought to suppress, his sister. Luxanna Crownguard. Officially missing, she was. Yet Garen clung to the fragile hope that wherever she had fled, guiding her fellow mages, she was safe… and far beyond Eldred's reach.

He turned to Eldred finally. "Why haven't they been apprehended then? If they didn't bother to hide themselves then surely it wouldn't be any trouble capturing them."

It was Tianna who handed him the next document. Her expression was grave. "The reports from the knights stationed at Wrenwall are… troubling."

Garen took the parchment and scanned its contents as she went on. "Their power was so overwhelming that even the petricite arms and armor proved ineffective. This account comes from Knight-Commander Alric Wrenford himself."

Eldred let out a harsh scoff. "Sylas' magic was formidable as well, yet he nearly met his end at your hand, did he not?" His single visible eye flicked toward Garen.

He folded his arms with a sharp motion. "If one Dawnguard could bring Sylas to his knees, then these upstarts will fare no better."

"That would be… fool, not fools." Jarvan interjected, his tone edged with disapproval.

Eldred's masked face shifted slightly as he turned toward the Crown Prince. "I beg your pardon?"

Tianna cut across them before the tension could escalate. "Indeed, the clash ended with only one survivor. Of the two mages, one lies dead. The other yet lives."

The chamber grew still after Tianna's words, the silence threaded with unspoken weight. Garen lowered the parchment slowly, its crumpled edge rough against his gauntlet.

"What do I have to do with any of this?" he asked at last, voice measured but firm. "Surely Wrenwall's defense lies with its own commander. If a single mage remains at large, the MageSeekers are well-suited to pursue them. Why call me here?"

Eldred bristled at the implication, but it was Jarvan who answered first. "The chances of it being another like Sylas is not zero. The ability to use magic even while under the petricite's effect is something unique to Sylas, at the moment."

Tianna inclined her head. "And because the mages fought each other. That is what troubles us most. If they were rebels seeking to strike Demacia, their target would have been clear. But they turned their power on one another, heedless of our soldiers, heedless of the fortress itself. Wrenwall was merely… the stage for their quarrel."

Garen's brow furrowed. "That does sound troubling. Such a bold display of confidence."

Jarvan's hand tightened around the edge of the table. "One that is severely misplaced, I assure you. However, If this mage still lives, we must know what manner of enemy, or ally, he truly is."

Eldred's masked face turned sharply toward the prince. "Ally? Your Highness, forgive me, but to speak of alliance with such filth..."

"It is not alliance I spoke of," Jarvan cut him off, his tone hard as steel. "If these reports hold even a semblance of truth-"

Garen noticed the faintest shift in the High Marshal's expression at that, her jaw tightening at the suggestion that a Knight of Demacia might lie in his report.

"-then there may be, perhaps, the chance for an unexpected boon," Jarvan finished, his words carrying more caution than conviction.

Garen knew the prince did not truly believe it, merely covering every possibility. Still, the insinuation left an unwelcome taste in his mouth. Loyalty demanded trust, not doubt.

Tianna's eyes moved from the prince to Garen, steady and resolute. "As one of the few Vanguards to have faced Sylas directly, you are best suited to this task. You will lead a detachment of MageSeekers to assess the truth of this mage. I have requested that Shyvana and the DragonGuard accompany you. Should this survivor prove as dangerous as the reports suggest, their presence will not be wasted."

Garen inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Understood. I will depart at once."

"Good," Tianna replied, gathering the scattered documents from his hands and stacking them neatly atop the pile. "We expect a second set of reports by nightfall. Should your orders change, the message will reach you before you arrive at Wrenwall."

She straightened to her full height, the mantle of command settling on her like armor. "You are dismissed, Sword-Captain. Duty calls."

Garen crossed his arms over his chest in the Demacian salute. Then, with crisp precision, he turned on his heel and marched from the chamber, the echo of his boots trailing in the vaulted silence behind him.

---

Cithria allowed herself a small smile as Cloudfield's hooves struck the packed earth beneath her. She had named her steed in quiet homage to her beginnings, a reminder of the humble village she had once called home.

Ahead, the riders of the First Shield kept their steady pace, armored silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the rolling Demacian countryside. Directly in front of her rode Alys Morn, the company's medic, who even now was locked in a familiar quarrel with Eben Hess. The seasoned soldier's grumbling carried back over the clatter of harness and steel, sharp with exasperation.

It felt like only yesterday Cithria had been a wide-eyed squire, gawking in disbelief at her chance to ride beside the heroes of the Dauntless Vanguard. That first exhilaration still lived in her chest, though now it was tempered, sharpened by the memory of what came after.

The expedition to Nockmirch. The battle that had tested not only her skill but the very convictions she had once held unshakable.

That had been over three moons ago, and yet the scars of it still lingered, making the time since feel far longer. And now here they were again, riding to Castle Wrenwall on another mission. Officially, it was to assess a mage. But as Cithria's grip tightened on her reins, she could not help the thought:

'It sounds more like we're riding to apprehend them.'

Ahead, Hess's voice broke her reverie.

"It's just one mage!" His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched, and a vein ticked in his temple as he glared at Morn, who met his bluster with her usual unflinching calm. "We're the Vanguard, for heaven's sake. Any regiment could've handled this."

"Doesn't matter what we think, does it?" Morn replied, her tone flat as steel. "They deemed this mage worth our attention, so here we are. Orders are orders."

Hess gave a frustrated grunt, his shoulders sagging as if even he knew the argument was already lost. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Cithria bit the inside of her cheek to stifle her laughter. Watching Morn dismantle Hess with nothing but a few clipped words never failed to amuse her.

The column pressed on, steel-shod hooves striking in measured rhythm against the road. The First Shield was not at full strength, this was no campaign, but even a half-strength detachment of the Dauntless Vanguard was enough to draw the wary eyes of villagers and farmers they passed.

Children darted from cottage doors to watch them, wide-eyed and whispering, until a stern look from a mother or elder dragged them back indoors. Word of Wrenwall's fall had clearly outpaced them, rippling across the countryside in rumor and fear.

Cithria felt the weight of those eyes as keenly as her armor. Demacia was supposed to stand as the steadfast heart of Valoran, its soldiers as unyielding as the mountains. Yet here they rode to face a threat their people scarcely understood, one that had already left a fortress in ruins.

Her gaze drifted toward the head of the column, where Garen rode at the forefront beside a pair of MageSeekers in their heavy petricite harness. Between them, silent as stone, strode the half-dragon.

Shyvana's presence always drew stares, even from soldiers who had long since grown used to her in their ranks. Her reddish purple skin glinted faintly in the afternoon light, a living reminder of the strangeness, that Demacia had chosen to accept. She rode not on horseback but on foot, keeping pace with the column without effort, her halberd slung across her back like a banner of war. Not that she needed it anyway.

The DragonGuard had joined their company, few miles out of the great city, and into the foothills. More than a score of them, clad in shining red and gold armour, a sharp contrast to the vanguard's silver and blue.

Cithria had never spoken more than a few words to her, but she had seen the looks the Dragon Guard gave their commander when they thought her back was turned. Respect. Loyalty.

Eben Hess's voice cut the air again, though quieter now, more thoughtful than angry.
"You ever think, Morn, that maybe we're not being sent to assess anything at all?"

Morn arched a brow, her silence inviting him to continue.

"That if this mage really is as strong as the reports say, we're not here to judge them… we're here to end them."

The words hung heavy between them, swallowed only by the steady march of hooves.

"I mean think about it. The vanguard, the MageSeekers, and the DragonGuard. For just one guy. I know orders are orders, but what exactly are we expecting to be facing?"

Morn shrugged although, Cithria was certain that she was seriously thinking through Hess' words. "If he's so powerful that no one could apprehend him. Then he should have escaped on his own by now, shouldn't he? I doubt anyone could hold him. But if he's still waiting, then perhaps there's something to the reports after all."

Cithria tightened her grip on Cloudfield's reins. She wanted to believe that. She had to believe that.

Because ahead, rising on the horizon, the blackened silhouette of Wrenwall's ruined towers was beginning to cut through the haze of distance.

 

[SaberGlory]

The road bent, and Wrenwall rose before them.

Cithria felt her throat dry at the sight. The proud fortress that had stood as a border watch for generations now bore scars that no catapult nor ram could have carved. Its western wall still held strong, but the eastern towers were shattered, as if something had reached down from the sky and plucked stone from its crown.

Patches of ice gleamed across the broken ramparts, white sheets catching the last of the sun. Here and there jagged peaks of frozen crystal jutted like cruel thorns from the earth, piercing through collapsed masonry. The air itself seemed to hold a chill, unnatural for the season, and Cloudfield stamped uneasily as they drew closer.

The gates hung open. Although it wasn't destroyed, just broken in their hinges, as though forced from within.

"By the Light…" someone muttered behind her.

Cithria followed the sound. It was Hess, slack-jawed for once, his usual bluster gone. Alys Morn rode beside him, her sharp eyes scanning every ruined parapet. For all her calm, Cithria saw her grip tighten on the reins.

The rest of the Vanguard kept formation, sixteen riders with shields upon their backs, spears gleaming faintly. Discipline steadied them, though every one of them could see what she saw: magic had been here, wild and unrestrained.

Closer still, and the smell reached them. Not death, thank the Light, but a sharpness like frozen iron, biting at the nose. The villagers outside the walls watched from a distance, whispering, their gazes flicking between the soldiers and the castle in a time that she couldn't decipher.

"Stay sharp," Captain Garen's voice rang clear. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, eyes locked ahead. "The report said no lives lost, but until we confirm, we take no chances."

Shyvana walked at his side, her armored boots crunching through a patch of frost. The cold seemed not to touch her. Her gaze swept the ruined towers with a hard, unreadable expression.

The hooves of their steeds echoed hollow against the stone causeway as the Vanguard passed beneath the ruined gates.

Within, the castle courtyard bore the marks of battle and sorcery both. Cobblestones were cracked by frozen spikes, shattered carts lay abandoned where they had been overturned, and sections of the inner wall were slick with lingering frost. Yet, amidst the wreckage, the blue and silver of Demacia still stood. Soldiers in battered armor formed ranks to meet them, spears planted firmly into the ground.

One stepped forward and raised a clenched fist to his chest. "Dauntless Vanguard. We are honored by your presence."

"Report," Garen commanded, halting his steed.

The man, an officer by his cloak and sigil, bowed his head once. "The situation is contained, Commander. The townsfolk live. We have secured the keep and await your command. Knight-Commander Alric holds counsel within. He expected your arrival."

"Lead us."

The officer turned, and the soldiers parted, saluting as the Vanguard rode through their ranks. Cithria felt the eyes of the garrison upon them, expecting the looks of exhausted men and women who bore the look of survivors, not victors. What she saw was the exact opposite, they looked surprised at their arrival, some even excited.

Wasn't there a battle here? The marks and destruction proved so.

They dismounted before the keep, handing their reins to squires. Cithria gave Cloudfield a quiet pat, the stallion still restless from the lingering cold. Together they followed Garen and Shyvana inside.

The great hall of Wrenwall had fared little better. Icicles hung from the rafters, dripping slowly into puddles on the stone floor. Fires burned low in braziers, fighting the unnatural chill, their smoke rising toward cracked beams above.

At the far end stood Knight-Commander Alric Wrenford. His armor bore fresh dents, his cloak frosted at the edges, but his posture was as unbending as the fortress he commanded. At his side, a great warhammer leaned against the dais, rimmed with frost not yet melted.

"Commander Crownguard," Alric greeted, voice heavy with fatigue but firm with discipline. "You honor us with your arrival." His gaze swept the hall, lingering on the Vanguard's shields.

He stepped down from the dais, clasping Garen's arm in the warrior's grip.

"Your men look well," Garen said, releasing Alric's arm. His voice carried not just approval, but surprise. "Better than I'd expected from the reports."

Alric's mouth pulled into the faintest line of grim humor. "We are fortunate, Commander. More fortunate than we deserve." He gestured broadly toward the hall. "The stones may be cracked, the gates broken, but my people yet live. For that, I give thanks."

Cithria caught the slight dip of his shoulders as he said it, the weight of someone who had walked the ramparts after the chaos and counted heads, fearing the worst.

"The Vanguard salutes your defense," Garen answered, raising his fist to his chest. The soldiers behind him mirrored the motion in a ripple of steel and leather. Cithria included.

Alric returned the salute, then motioned to a nearby table. Upon it lay a scattering of maps and reports, parchment weighed down by stones of frost still clinging to their edges. "We have compiled what we could," Alric said, his tone tightening. "The damage was localized to the fortress itself. The village outside saw little more than falling debris. No casualties save for one, a mage, already dead before we reached them."

Alys Morn leaned subtly toward Cithria, her lips moving without sound, Already dead? Cithria gave the slightest nod.

Alric continued. "The survivor… did not flee. He dispatched his opponent, and then remained here. When the MageSeekers attempted to bind him, he resisted, but without bloodshed. No man was slain, though many were… humbled." His voice held the faintest rasp of humiliation, though it was buried beneath his rigid formality.

Garen's brow furrowed as he scanned the maps. "And the ice?"

"A byproduct of their clash, so our men tell it. We found no sigils, no residue of spellwork beyond the frost itself. The keep's masons swear it will hold through the thaw, but…" Alric glanced up, his expression grave. "I have never seen magic of such scale wielded so easily. The reports you read, Commander, they were written with care, but they do not capture the… inevitability of it. He fought as though we could not touch him. And truth be told, we could not."

The admission rang through the hall like a hammer striking stone. Even the fire seemed to crackle softer.

Shyvana's arms crossed over her chest, scales glinting faintly in the torchlight. "You believe he intended no harm, then?"

Alric hesitated. His gaze swept the room as though weighing the ears around him. Finally, he said, "He waits still in the courtyard. Not as a prisoner though, he's made that much clear. He claims he will not move until he has been heard."

Garen exchanged a glance with Shyvana, then turned back to Alric. His hand rested lightly on the table's edge, fingers brushing against the frost-stained maps. "You've done well, Knight-Commander. Now take me to him."

Alric inclined his head. "As you command."

Alric turned, his cloak brushing across the stone floor as he gestured for them to follow. The Vanguard fell into step behind Garen, their boots a steady rhythm against the cold stone. The keep's corridors bore the same scars as the walls outside, splintered beams, frozen cracks spidering along mortar, the occasional jag of ice jutting like a blade from the floor. Torches sputtered low against the damp chill.

They emerged once more into the open air, stepping down broad stone steps that led into the courtyard proper.

Clack!

The sharp crack of wood rang from ahead, carrying across the stone hall. Garen's brow furrowed, and he turned his gaze toward Alric in silent question.

The Knight-Commander had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. "Ah. That would be him. Since his arrival three days ago, the mage has taken to the courtyard at dawn… to train."

Garen slowed, and so did the Vanguard behind him, Cithria among them. A ripple of unease passed through the column. Training was not the word she expected.

"Train?" Garen's voice was low, even, but edged with suspicion.

Alric gave a weary nod.

"His sorcery?" Hess growled, leaning forward as though ready to snuff the answer out himself.

"Goodness, no," Alric replied quickly, shaking his head. "We were spared that particular misfortune."

Cithria blinked, confusion stirring in her chest. If not sorcery, then what? Wouldn't the MageSeekers want to see his craft, to study it, to seize upon weaknesses?

Alric's sigh was heavy, as though he had explained this more times than he cared to count. "According to the man I assigned to watch him, he rises before dawn, and for three hours he does nothing but push himself through… exercises. Fifty thousand push-ups. Fifty thousand sit-ups. Fifty thousand handstand push-ups. Fifty thousand squats."

Cithria's jaw nearly went slack. She recoiled despite herself, and she wasn't alone. Even Garen's expression shifted, stiff, unsettled, as if such excess struck him as unnatural.

'Why,' Cithria thought, aghast, 'would anyone put themselves through that? And what soldier could gain from such strain?'

Alric went on, his tone almost flat with resignation. "We thought the same. Then one of ours, Light forgive him, because I know I won't, mentioned our Demacian regiment. The mage lit up at the sound of it, as though we had handed him treasure. From then on he added to his madness, hours of hauling boulders while training, running the walls of Wrenwall fourteen times with half a quarry on his back. And when the day ends, he does not rest."

He gestured faintly toward the open courtyard beyond. "Evenings, he takes up his blades. Sparring. First alone, then with my men. And they… enjoy it. Enough that more join him each night. By now, half the garrison takes turns crossing swords with him, and he welcomes them all. He seems tireless."

Alric's eyes looked suddenly older, as though the weight of his words pressed down on him. "I've commanded men through sieges, seen them bleed and break. But I've never seen a soul burn with so much raw, ceaseless energy. Not once."

The hall fell into quiet, save for the echo of another clack from beyond the doors.

The great doors to the courtyard groaned as they pushed open, spilling pale light and the sound of rhythm into the keep's shadow.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The noise struck with a steady tempo, wood against wood, like a war-drum played by a single hand. As they stepped out, the source became clear.

In the heart of the courtyard, surrounded by a wide circle of armored soldiers, a lone figure moved with blinding speed. His body bent and twisted in impossible rhythm, blades flashing arcs of wood against a wooden sword wielded by one of Alric's men. The soldier strained with both hands, sweat pouring, his footing sliding against the frosted cobblestones. But the stranger did not falter, not even slowing down.

Each strike landed with enough force to rattle the courtyard walls. Each parry answered with such exactness that even Garen's trained eye struggled to follow. And when the soldier's knees finally buckled, his weapon knocked skyward, the mage caught the falling sword in one hand and returned it to him with a nod, as though the clash had been nothing more than a morning stretch.

Cithria felt her throat tighten. It was not just the skill, it was the ease. No panting. No ragged sweat. His chest barely rose, as though the exertion had been less than a walk across the hall.

The mage turned then, catching sight of them.

He was younger than she expected. Rough ashen white hair, sharp green eyes that seemed to pierce without malice, and a frame packed with just as much bulk as Garen. His garments were odd, a black cloak, ragged and torn at the edges, covered his white shirt. His trouses were a thick brown and his boot were the same.

Apart from the wooden sword in his hand, he didn't seem to have any other weapon on him. Of course, as a mage, he probably didn't need them. Cithria did notice the book on his hip, placed in a sachel.

The soldiers around him straightened quickly, saluting upon noticing Garen and the vanguard.

Garen stepped forward, his shadow stretching long across the frost-stained stones. The weight of his presence drew silence from the garrison.

"You are the one they call Asta," Garen said, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

Cithria raised an eyebrow, though only in the quiet of her mind. When exactly had the Sword-Captain learned the mage's name?

The man before them lowered his blade with a practiced ease, letting it rest at his side. His movements held no trace of fear, no hesitation, even when standing before the much taller Garen. The difference in height was clear, yet the mage's build was nearly as imposing. Cithria caught herself wondering if, perhaps, he might even carry more muscle than the Sword-Captain himself.

"I am," the stranger said at last, his tone steady, almost casual. "Asta Silver. You're definitely not like the others. Who exactly am I speaking to?"

"I am Garen Crownguard, of House Crownguard. Sword-Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard, and the Might of Demacia," Garen declared, his voice carrying the weight of command. At his words, Cithria found herself instinctively standing straighter, pride stirring in her chest.

"Woah," Asta murmured, his expression shifting into one of open awe. "That's a lot of titles. You must have earned many merits."

'You couldn't even begin to imagine,' Cithria thought, her heart swelling with quiet pride for her commander.

 

[SaberGlory]

Garen did not yet draw his blade, but his posture shifted, broad shoulders leaning slightly forward, voice heavy with command.

"According to Demacian law, your very presence here is a crime. And that is without even accounting for the damage you inflicted upon Castle Wrenwall."

The mage, Asta, let out a long, weary sigh, murmuring more to himself than to anyone else.
"Every time I end up in a new country, it's always something…"

Garen ignored the words, his gaze never leaving the man before him. "I would advise that you turn yourself in. Yet from the reports I have received, you resisted detainment. Clearly, you will not submit peacefully."

This time, his gauntleted hand fell to the hilt of his greatsword. The motion carried weight enough to ripple through the courtyard.
"Now, give me one good reason why I should not cut you down where you stand, mage."

At once, the Dauntless Vanguard moved as one. Behind Garen, shields shifted, steel rasped faintly against scabbards, and disciplined hands fell to hilts. Cithria felt her pulse quicken as her own fingers brushed the pommel of her sword, ready to draw at the first spark. Beside the Sword-Captain, Shyvana's claws flexed with restrained menace, her presence radiating heat as the nearby Dragon Guard lower their spears with a sharp, practiced snap.

Asta raised both hands quickly, palms open in a gesture of peace. "Whoa, whoa! Calm down, all of you! I'm not the enemy here, seriously!"

"Do not attempt deceit, mage!" Garen's voice boomed across the yard, cutting through the tension like a blade through armor. "Surrender at once. You will answer to Demacia for the destruction wrought here today."

"But I didn't do it!" Asta shouted back, his words loud enough to clash with Garen's, but without the Sword-Captain's gravitas. His tone was raw, even a little annoying. "Man, you guys really hate mages that much?"

Asta's gaze flicked past Garen to the woman beside him. He jabbed a finger in Shyvana's direction, brows furrowed. "Wait, what about her? Isn't she a magic person too?"

The half-dragon's lips curled into a scoff, her tone edged like steel. "I am a spear of Demacia. I serve this kingdom. I am no criminal. You, however, are an enemy."

Asta threw his arms wide in frustration. "But why though!?" His voice cracked with exasperation before it trailed into a heavy sigh. His shoulders sagged, the fight in his stance giving way to something else. To Cithria, it wasn't quite surrender, it was as if a strange calm had settled over him.

"Fine then," he muttered, though there was a stubborn finality in the words. "Let's settle this."

From his hip came the sharp click of a clasp breaking open. A leather satchel stirred, and in a heartbeat, a thick tome slid free and rose into the air, its pages fluttering as if carried by unseen hands. The sight alone sent a coil of dread twisting in Cithria's chest. The mere presence of the book radiated power, and her instincts screamed at her that nothing good would come once it opened.

He was about to cast. She knew it. They all knew it.

Cithria surged forward, boots striking stone, but Garen and Shyvana were faster. The Sword-Captain's greatsword arced down in a shining sweep, the air itself cleaving beneath its weight. At the same moment, Shyvana's claws flashed free, her strike a blur of sharpened steel and scale aimed straight for the mage's throat.

Clang!

The sound cracked like a bell, sharp and unnatural. Sparks burst as Garen's greatsword met not flesh but iron-hard resistance. Asta had raised his wooden training blade, and with one arm alone, he caught the full weight of the Might of Demacia's strike.

At the same instant, his other hand shot up and clamped around Shyvana's wrist. Her claws stopped dead, muscles straining, but the mage's grip did not budge.

Cithria froze mid-step, heart hammering, her breath caught in her throat. The impossible sight burned itself into her mind, one man, holding back both Garen Crownguard and Shyvana, with nothing but raw strength and a wooden sword.

"Whoa!" Asta exclaimed, his grin flashing despite the tension. "You guys are pretty fast. Faster than I was when I first joined the Magic Knights."

Cithria's brow furrowed. 'Magic Knights?' The name meant nothing to her. 'Surely such an order would have reached our ears at least once… Arbormark, perhaps?' Her thought faltered as movement drew her eyes back to the floating tome.

Something stirred from within its pages. At first, it seemed like a shadow stretching free, but no, it was solid, steel-dark, and heavy. A hilt broke through the surface of the book, followed by a strange crossguard, and then the unmistakable breadth of a blade.

With a resounding thunck! a massive greatsword of black steel plunged into the stones at Asta's side. The courtyard floor quivered faintly under its weight, a vibration Cithria felt in her boots. The weapon stood taller than most men, a thing of sheer brutality, born from a book that radiated unmistakable sorcery.

Garen braced as Asta's wooden blade pressed back against his greatsword. The Sword-Captain's boots screeched against the frost-slick stones, sparks hissing where steel scraped stone.

Then Asta's leg snapped out in a sudden, brutal kick. His heel struck Shyvana square in the stomach with a sound like a hammer striking iron.

"Gah!" The half-dragon staggered, then was flung backward outright, her armored form sailing past Cithria in a blur before she crashed into the stone wall with bone-rattling force. Dust and frost shook loose from the impact.

Cithria's breath caught. 'He kicked her… through the air?'

"Ah. My bad." Asta's voice carried with alarming nonchalance as he glanced over his shoulder at Shyvana's crumpled form. He looked almost sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. "She looked really strong, so I thought she'd be tougher. Guess I used too much strength."

For a moment, the absurdity of his tone clashed violently with the devastation he'd just dealt. Bewilderment stirred in Cithria's chest, but instinct overrode it quickly.

By then, she was no longer alone. The Dauntless Vanguard had surged forward, shields raised, spears leveled. The Dragon Guard spread out beside them, steel tips glittering in the pale light. Together they formed a wall of steel and will, encircling the mage in a tightening ring.

Asta, for his part, stood calmly in the center, one hand on his wooden blade, the other resting lightly near the colossal black sword that still jutted from the ground at his side. He didn't even flinch at the sight of two dozen weapons aimed directly at his heart.

Asta glanced down at the wooden sword in his hand. With a casual flick, he tossed it over his shoulder; it clattered uselessly against the frost-stained stone. His hand closed instead around the black hilt jutting from the earth.

When he pulled, the courtyard shuddered. Stone cracked beneath his boots as the greatsword tore free with a grinding roar, fragments of cobblestone breaking apart from the force. The sheer weight of the weapon seemed enough to bow the ground itself, yet he hefted it as though it were nothing more than a training blade.

Garen stepped forward, Judgement raised before him, the golden steel catching the pale light of the frost. His presence loomed over the courtyard, every inch the Sword-Captain of Demacia.

Asta answered in kind. He lifted the massive blade with a single hand, the black steel humming faintly in the cold air, and leveled its edge at Garen. His green eyes sparked with challenge.

"Well, what do you say, Commander?" His voice was steady, almost eager. "Just me and you. Settle this without dragging anyone else into it. No need for more people to get hurt."

Cithria's heart lurched. Every fiber of her training told her to shout a warning, to beg Garen not to face this monster alone. The mage had already thrown Shyvana like a doll, how could anyone hope to match that strength? And yet… her pride in her Sword-Captain smothered the thought. If anyone could stand, it would be him. He would not lose. He could not.

"Against a sorcerer's blade of unknown power?" Garen's grim tone carried across the courtyard, though his grip did not falter.

"It's not a magic sword." Asta cut in quickly, shaking his head. "It's an anti-magic sword."

Garen blinked. "What?"

"Anti-magic," Asta repeated, swinging the weapon in a broad arc. Despite its size, the blade moved with startling speed, whistling through the cold air. "There's no magic in the Demon Slayer."

Cithria's stomach knotted. 'The Demon Slayer…?' The very name of the weapon set her nerves alight. Her eyes lingered on its impossible weight, its black sheen that reflected no light. 'That is no petricite…'

"That looks nothing like any petricite sword I've ever seen," Garen said aloud, his tone edged, as if plucking the thought straight from her mind.

Asta tilted his head, brow furrowing in confusion. "Petricite? Oh, you mean that white metal your weapons are made of? I guess this sword used to be white once, back when Licht wielded it, but that was before it was infused with Anti-Magic, then it turned black."

"Infused?" Garen repeated, his voice edged with doubt. "You expect me to believe Anti-Magic can be infused into something?"

Asta waved his hand, gesturing with the massive blade as if it were nothing more than a stick. "I'm serious. If you don't believe me, check it yourself. Uh… do you have some way of detecting magic?" He scratched his cheek, suddenly uncertain.

The room fell into silence. Cithria could feel the collective pause, everyone exchanging baffled glances. The same thought flickered across their minds. 'Is he actually serious?'

"I-In fact, we do," came a measured voice. One of the MageSeekers stepped forward from the line of guards beside the Dragon Guard. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair visible beneath the golden mask that obscured half his face.

"Neat," Asta said brightly, hefting the greatsword toward him. The sudden motion caused an immediate stir, shields shifted, blades raised, the entire ring of soldiers tightening as if preparing for the worst.

Asta blinked at the reaction. "Uh… relax." He planted the blade into the stone floor with a dull thunk and backed away two steps, hands raised in mock surrender.

The MageSeeker hesitated, gaze flicking between Asta, the embedded sword, and Garen, who looked distinctly unamused by this entire exchange. Then, with a breath, the Seeker stepped forward. From within his robes, he drew a small silver emblem shaped like a stylized flower.

A Petricite GreyMark. A tool the MageSeekers favored, capable of detecting and nullifying magical traces simply by proximity.

The MageSeeker advanced with measured steps, his gloved hand outstretched as the GreyMark drew closer to the sword buried in the stone. The silver emblem pulsed faintly in the dim light, its flowery shape catching the glow of nearby torches.

Nothing happened. No flare, no hum, no reaction at all.

The man froze, confusion tightening his features beneath the golden mask. "How…? How is this possible?"

Asta took a curious step forward, only to make the soldiers flinch again. He quickly shuffled back with both hands raised. "Whoa, relax! I'm just asking. So, uh, what is that thing? What's it supposed to do?"

Garen's voice cut through the tension, low and steady. "That is a Petricite GreyMark. It detects and nullifies magic."

A look of recognition dawned across Asta's face. "Ah, so basically the same as my sword. Got it. Huh… how does it nullify magic though? I thought I was the only one who could do stuff like that. Back home, people would kill for something like this."

His casual words unsettled the chamber more than any threat might have. Cithria felt her chest tighten, was he truly treating this like an everyday curiosity?

"So the sword really isn't magic?" Garen asked, his gaze narrowing on the MageSeeker.

The man faltered, his composure cracking. His fingers tightened around the GreyMark as he glanced between the weapon, the mage, and his commander. "I… I don't know. I honestly don't know what to make of this. We all saw it emerge from the tome. That alone should mark it as magic, and yet…" He trailed off, uncertainty heavy in his tone.

Garen fixed him with a hard stare, one that wordlessly said. 'You're asking me to explain this?'

"So… about that duel?" Asta asked, giving a casual wave of his hand toward Garen. His grin was disarmingly earnest, as though the two of them were merely sparring partners. "I won't use any kind of magic or powers. I just want to see how strong you are, as a fellow magicless swordsman."

The words only deepened the strangeness of the encounter. Every sentence that came out of this mage's mouth seemed to make less and less sense, as though he lived in a world entirely apart from their own.

For a fleeting moment, Garen felt the urge to voice his frustration, to demand clarity, to shout down the absurdity of it all. But the eyes of his men were upon him, and the weight of his station left no room for outbursts. The Sword-Captain of Demacia could not afford to look shaken.

So instead, he straightened his shoulders, his expression settling into the unshakable steel of command. He gave a single, firm nod.

"Very well," Garen said, his voice carrying across the frost-cracked courtyard. "I accept your challenge."

 

[SaberGlory]

Garen's gauntlet tightened around the hilt of Judgment. The sword's gilded edge caught the faint torchlight that flickered across the courtyard, illuminating the frost-slick stone between him and his opponent. Every soldier who stood in the ring of steel could feel the pressure building in the air, the kind that precedes a storm.

Asta's grin widened. He adjusted his stance, lowering his center of gravity, the massive black blade resting across his shoulders as if it weighed nothing. "Alright then," he said, voice bright and utterly without fear. "Let's make this quick."

The moment stretched, silent, taut. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Then, Asta moved.

It wasn't magic, at least not in the way any Demacian would recognize. One instant he was standing still, the next the cobblestones cracked beneath his boots as he blurred forward.

Garen reacted instantly, years of training snapping into instinct. He pivoted, greatsword rising to meet the charge. The impact was thunderous. Asta's blade came down like a meteor, shattering the flagstones where Garen had stood only a heartbeat before.

Sparks burst, steel screamed.

Garen's boots slid back across the stone as he caught the blow on the flat of Judgment. The weight behind the strike was monstrous, like clashing against a siege ram. He gritted his teeth, holding his ground through sheer will.

Asta blinked, surprised that Garen hadn't budged an inch more. "You're tough!" he said, genuine admiration in his voice.

"Demacia," Garen said between clenched teeth, shoving forward and breaking the lock, "does not yield so easily!"

He twisted his blade, bringing it around in a heavy, disciplined sweep aimed at Asta's side. The mage-turned-swordsman leapt back, the greatsword whipping around with deceptive agility. The wind from his counterstrike hissed through Garen's cloak as it passed, close enough to shear a few threads loose.

Cithria felt her pulse hammering as she watched.

The two met again at the center of the courtyard.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Each impact rang like a cannon blast. The shockwaves cracked the stones beneath their feet, fragments of frost and debris scattering with every exchange. Garen ducked under one sweeping strike, driving a boot into Asta's knee to stagger him back before launching into a powerful upward cleave.

Asta raised the Demon Slayer as his knee refused to budge, the blade taking the hit and shrugging off the force completely. The recoil didn't even make him flinch. He swung in retaliation, the black sword humming with a deep vibration that made the air itself tremble.

Garen stepped into the blow instead of away from it. The tactic caught Asta off guard. Garen twisted, redirecting the swing with the flat of his sword before driving his shoulder into Asta's chest. The mage grunted, boots skidding several feet as the commander pushed him back with sheer physical might.

"That's awesome." Asta shouted, laughing as he steadied himself.

Garen didn't respond. He planted Judgment in both hands, breathing evenly through his nose. "If this is your strength without magic," he said, voice like iron, "then you're a dangerous man indeed."

"And you," Asta replied, planting his own sword upright before resting a hand atop the hilt, "You are so strong even without magic. I can't believe that someone else exists. It makes me so happy to know that there I'm not the only one without magic. But at the same time, it's so sad, that like me, you'll never know the joys of magic."

Cithria looked like someone had punched her for no reason as she watched the mage start crying... For some reason.

Then they charged again.

This time, Asta took the offensive first, swinging low and fast. Garen parried, the black steel glancing off his blade with a burst of sparks. He countered with a sweeping strike of his own, but Asta ducked beneath it, using the momentum to pivot and kick off the ground, flipping over Garen's head.

Cithria's breath hitched. "He's flying!"

Not quite, but close. Asta landed behind Garen, twisting his grip on the greatsword and striking in one fluid motion. The black blade came down like a guillotine. Garen turned just in time, catching the edge on his pauldron. The impact dented the steel and sent him staggering back a step, but his counterattack came immediately after, an upward slash that forced Asta to retreat again.

The soldiers watching were silent. None dared move, barely dared breathe.

Asta exhaled slowly, his grin fading into a look of focused determination. "You're strong," he admitted, his voice steady. "But is that the best you can do? If you don't have magic, how do you protect your kingdom?"

The question, simple as it was, struck a nerve.

Garen chuckled, though there was an edge to it. Around him, the Demacian soldiers bristled at what they heard as an insult, an affront to everything they stood for.

Cithria felt a heat rise within her chest, an unfamiliar anger welling up at the mage's words. She didn't understand why they got to her so deeply, but the idea that some outsider would question their strength, their Demacia, was intolerable.

'Who does he think he is?' she thought, forcing her expression to remain calm even as her grip tightened on her sword hilt.

Garen lifted his blade skyward, voice booming like thunder across the courtyard. "Strength through discipline!"

The ground itself trembled as every Demacian soldier answered in unison, their voices echoing with conviction. "HONOUR THROUGH DILIGENCE!"

Asta blinked in surprise, the sheer force of their unity washing over him like a wave.

Then, Garen moved.

He exploded forward with a burst of speed that made the air crack, crossing ten feet in the blink of an eye. "For Demacia!" he roared.

Clang!

The collision was deafening. A gale of wind burst outward as the gleaming silver edge of Judgement met the jagged, blackened blade of the Demon Slayer.

Both men stood their ground, locked in a clash of raw strength and conviction, steel grinding against steel, sparks lighting the space between them.

Then, to Cithria's utter bewilderment, the mage sighed.

"You guys are so cool," Asta said, almost sounding genuine. His tone wasn't mocking, instead it was admiring. "Strength Through Discipline. What an awesome motto." He smiled faintly, though there was something different in his eyes now. "But… it's not enough."

A chill crept down Cithria's spine. She wasn't sure why, but every instinct screamed that something unbelievable was about to happen.

Before anyone could react, Asta shifted his stance. He released his left hand from the hilt of his massive sword, holding the Demon Slayer one-handed as though it weighed nothing.

Cithria's eyes widened. 'That thing was as tall as he was, how could he...'

Steel groaned. Garen gritted his teeth, his muscles straining as he tried to hold the line. But to everyone's shock, the commander of the Dauntless Vanguard began to lose ground. Inch by inch, the mage pushed him back, the ground cracking beneath their feet.

"Not nearly enough," Asta muttered, before twisting his wrist and swinging the sword in a wide arc... effortlessly.

BOOM!

The impact sent a shockwave rippling across the courtyard. Garen was launched backward, crashing into the marble floor hard enough to crater it. Dust and stone exploded outward, and the roar of the soldiers died into stunned silence.

Asta stood there, arm still extended from the follow-through of his swing, the massive black blade humming with faint vibration. He blinked once, twice, then lowered the sword to his side. "Oh… uh, sorry about that," he said, scratching the back of his head. "Guess I put too much into that one."

Cithria stared at him, completely dumbfounded. The man had just sent the Pride of Demacia flying like a rag doll, and now he was apologizing? 'He did that earlier with Shyvanna as well.'

The haze began to clear, and through the settling dust, the shape of Garen rose. The marble beneath him had cracked and caved inward from the impact. Behind him, Judgement stabbed into the ground after it had flown from his hand.

Garen steadied himself, planting a hand on the ground before rising to his feet. He took a step back, gripping Judgment firmly once more as he stared across the courtyard at the black-haired mage.

Asta, calm and unreadable, rested the massive sword on his shoulder. "Even then," he said evenly, "I'm not wrong." His voice carried easily through the dust-filled air. "You're not strong enough to fight me. Not even close. I'm holding back, considerably, just to prove that I'm not the enemy here."

Cithria's hand tightened on her sword. Against her better judgment, she believed him. She didn't know why, but something deep inside whispered that the mage was telling the truth. Even after mocking their ideals and shattering their pride, his words carried no deceit.

He really was holding back.

After all, he hadn't cast a single spell, not one, and yet he'd matched the Sword-Captain blow for blow, then sent him flying with what looked like casual strength.

That realization left her cold. If this was him restraining himself… what would he be like at full power?

Her thoughts spiraled until a groggy voice broke the silence.

"Urgh… what happened?"

Every head turned toward Shyvana, who was surrounded by dragon guards as she slowly sat up, one clawed hand rubbing the side of her head.

'She was unconscious?' Cithria's mind reeled. 'From one hit? He only hit her once!'

No one had noticed, not during the chaos, not with all eyes fixed on the duel. The realization hit hard. That single blow from Asta, one he hadn't even seemed to put effort into, had taken out one of Demacia's strongest. A half-dragon.

Shyvana rose to her feet with a snarl, smoke curling from her lips as her eyes flashed molten red. "You're gonna pay for that," she growled, storming toward Asta.

"That is enough, Shyvana."

Garen's voice cut through the tension like a blade.

She froze mid-step, her head turning sharply toward him. "Sword-Captain?"

Garen shook his head, brushing dust from his armor as he turned to face Asta once more. The tension between them lingered, heavy and palpable.

"You are right," He said, his voice measured but firm. "You've given enough proof that you mean no immediate harm to Demacia." His gaze hardened, though not unkindly. "But remember this, I am more than what Demacia has to offer. So I'll ask that you never speak lightly of her name again."

Asta tilted his head slightly, as though considering the weight of Garen's words.

"I will need to report everything that's happened here," Garen continued, stepping forward with the authority of command. "Depending on what the High Council decides, we'll determine your standing, and your fate, within Demacia. Until then, I ask that you cooperate with us."

The courtyard was utterly silent. Dozens of soldiers, vanguards, and dragon guards watched as Garen extended a gauntleted hand.

Asta's expression softened. He hesitated for a heartbeat, as if measuring the intent behind the gesture. The young mage's eyes flicked down to the hand, then back up to meet Garen's gaze.

Finally, he smiled, a faint, honest smile that seemed out of place after such a fierce duel.

"I will," Asta said, stepping forward and grasping Garen's hand in a warrior's grip. The contact was solid, grounded, two men who, in another life, might've stood side by side on the same battlefield.

For a brief moment, the tension in the courtyard eased. The soldiers lowered their weapons. Cithria exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath. Even Shyvana, still simmering with restrained anger, watched in silence as the two released their grip.

 

[SaberGlory]

Asta's hand dropped to his side as the last echoes of their handshake faded into the cold morning air. Around them, the courtyard remained hushed, the gathered soldiers exchanging uncertain glances.

"Captain," one of the vanguard officers spoke, stepping forward, voice hesitant. "What are your orders?"

Garen turned slightly, the gleam of Judgment catching the dim torchlight as he glanced toward the men. "Stand down. The courtyard is secure."

A ripple of relief moved through the formation, though it was tempered by unease. The soldiers sheathed their blades, but none took their eyes off Asta.

Garen adjusted his grip on his sword, lowering it until its tip touched the stone. "Asta," he said, his tone calm, but resolute, "you'll come with us to the great city of Demacia. You've earned enough respect to not be treated as a prisoner, but I'll ask that you stay within the Citadel's custody until we've spoken to the Council."

Asta blinked, tilting his head. "Tge Great city of Demacia? That's your capital, right?"

Garen nodded once. "The heart of Demacia. It's where the final judgment on this matter will be made."

For a moment, Asta looked as if he might argue. His eyes flicked from the soldiers to the walls, then back to Garen. But then he smiled again, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, sure. If that's what it takes to clear things up, I'll go. Just don't expect me to sit still forever."

Cithria found herself almost smiling at the remark. Almost.

Shyvana's claws flexed as she crossed her arms, her gaze sharp as ever. "He's dangerous, Garen. You saw it yourself. We have no idea what he can do."

Garen met her eyes and gave a small nod. "I would expect you to have a completely different reaction to him."

That silenced her, though the faint growl in her throat said she didn't agree.

The commander turned to Asta again. "You'll be escorted under guard, for formality's sake. I trust you won't make that an issue?"

"Not unless someone tries to pick a fight," Asta said lightly, glancing at the ring of soldiers still watching him like a bomb about to go off. "I'm not here to cause trouble."

Garen's lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. "Then we have an understanding."

He turned to his men. "Prepare a transport. We leave for the great city in two days."

The soldiers snapped to attention, moving with crisp efficiency. Shyvana stalked off toward the far end of the courtyard, muttering under her breath. Cithria lingered a moment longer, her eyes following the strange, black-clad swordsman.

Asta caught her staring and gave a small, disarming wave. "Hey. You okay?"

Cithria blinked, caught off guard. "I, yes."

He laughed, bright and unbothered, as if the tension around him didn't even register. "Yeah, I'm still not sure how I ended up here in the first place."

'I didn't ask anything though.' Before she could answer, one of the MageSeekers called over his shoulder. "This way Sir Mage."

The mage gave her a grin, hoisted his sword onto his shoulder, and followed the commander toward the gates.

---

The next two days passed beneath Wrenwall's gray skies, heavy with mist and watchful silence.
Though the battle was over, the fortress still hummed with the kind of unease that only followed when something unnatural had walked its grounds.

Asta wasn't confined, not exactly. He was given a cot in one of the outer barracks, a space usually reserved for trusted mercenaries or visiting soldiers. Two MageSeekers stood outside his door at all hours, their eyes following his every movement. If the lack of privacy bothered him, he didn't show it.

In truth, Asta seemed... comfortable.
He helped carry crates of rations that arrived from the supply wagons, sparred briefly with a few curious soldiers in the courtyard, and even shared stories over bread and broth at the evening mess. He was loud, cheerful, and entirely out of place among the stiff, disciplined Demacians.

Cithria found herself watching him more than she cared to admit.

When she reported to Garen the next morning, he didn't seem surprised. "I expected as much," he said, arms folded across his chest as he stood on the ramparts overlooking the camp below. "He doesn't act like a man with something to hide. This makes him more dangerous, not less. Keep that in mind."

"Understood Sword-Captain." Cithria saluted.

Shyvana, leaning against the stone wall nearby, snorted. "You're giving him too much credit. I still think we should have bound him."

Garen's expression didn't change. "And risk provoking him into proving why we shouldn't? No. If he wanted to attack, he would have done so already."

Cithria hesitated before speaking. "Sir… what if he's telling the truth? bout being from another world?"

That drew both of their gazes, and she nearly regretted saying it. But Garen only looked thoughtful. "Morn has grown really fond of you then, if she told you of the information we gathered. As for what he claims, we'll cross that bridge when we get there."

---

Morning broke over Wrenwall in muted shades of silver and blue, the light slipping through a low curtain of fog that rolled down from the mountains. The fortress stirred slowly, a living thing waking from uneasy dreams. The clang of armor, the creak of wooden carts, and the low murmur of disciplined voices filled the air.

Cithria was already awake. She had been long before the trumpets sounded. Sleep had not come easily, her mind refused to still after recent events.

Now, as she tightened the last strap of her armor, the morning light brushed against the edge of her pauldrons, painting them in faint gold. She checked the fit of her gloves twice, then again, before securing her cloak. It was habit, the kind drilled into her since her first campaign. But beneath the steady rhythm of preparation, there was unease she couldn't quite name.

Outside, the courtyard was alive with motion. Stablehands loaded supply crates into the wagons. Squads of soldiers fell into marching lines, their voices carrying over the hum of the morning air. The dragon guard was already assembled near the gate, Shyvana standing at their head like a sentinel carved from iron.

Cithria took her place among the vanguard. The air was crisp, laced with the smell of oil and steel. She adjusted her helm under her arm as she caught sight of Asta standing a few paces from the MageSeekers' post.

He was dressed in the same strange, tattered cloak from two days before, though someone had provided him with cleaner underclothes and boots. He looked oddly refreshed, his expression bright as he leaned against a wagon wheel, chatting with one of the younger soldiers like they were old friends. The soldier laughed at something he said, actually laughed, before noticing Garen's approach and straightening instantly.

Cithria frowned. It wasn't that Asta was disrespectful, exactly. He simply... didn't seem to understand Demacia.

To him, rank and discipline meant little. Yet somehow, that lack of reverence didn't come across as arrogance, more like sincerity in a world too strict to allow it.

"Cithria," a familiar voice called from behind her. She turned to see Alys Morn approaching, his weathered features marked by fatigue and something close to caution.

"Unexpected developments?" she finished, adjusting her sword belt.

Morn smirked faintly. "You've been paying attention."

Cithria glanced toward Asta again. "It's hard not to."

Garen's command voice soon carried over the courtyard, firm and clear. "We ride in formation until midday. Maintain distance between the carriages. MageSeekers take rear position. Dragon Guard, cover the flanks."

A chorus of "Yes, Sword-Captain!" echoed through the air.

As the soldiers began to move, Cithria mounted her horse. The leather reins felt cold beneath her gloves. From her vantage point, she could see the whole procession beginning to form, banners of silver and blue fluttering faintly against the morning haze.

Then came Asta, walking easily beside the lead wagon. He gave a lazy wave when he caught her eye. "Morning! Guess today's the big trip, huh?"

'Why is he talking to me again?' Cithria blinked, unsure how to respond. "It's not a trip," she said after a pause. "It's an official escort to the capital."

He grinned. "Right, right. An official escort. Sounds fancy."

She sighed inwardly, choosing not to reply. But she found, to her annoyance, that the corner of her mouth almost lifted.

The gates of Wrenwall groaned open, spilling sunlight and mist across the cobblestone path. The wind carried the sound of hooves and the rhythmic clatter of armor as the column began to move.

But if there was one thing Cithria had learned in her years of service, it was that things were never so simple.

"Mage! Stop him!"

The shout rang out from deep within Wrenwall's inner walls, sharp, and unmistakably urgent.

Cithria turned instinctively, her hand flying to her sword. Around her, the column halted, soldiers glancing about in confusion. The sound of boots and armor shifting echoed through the misted courtyard.

Asta blinked, bewildered. "What? I didn't do anything!"

"It's not you, lad," Hess barked. His gaze swept toward the fortress gates just as Garen vaulted from his steed, Judgment flashing in his grasp. Without a word, the Sword-Captain sprinted back through the gate, the sound of his armor ringing against the stone.

"Hey, wait!" Cithria heard Hess shout, but before anyone could react, a gust of wind cut through the air. Asta blurred forward in a streak of motion, dashing past her and straight after Garen.

"Of course," Cithria muttered under her breath, already reaching for her blade.

Shyvana roared something indistinct and took off after them, the ground shaking beneath her strides. The Dragon Guard moved in unison, their heavy armor clattering as they followed their commander inside.

"This is turning into a right mess, eh?" Hess groaned, swinging off his horse.

Morn laughed, sharp and fearless. "Wouldn't be Demacia without one." She drew her blade and broke into a run. "With me, Cithria!"

Cithria didn't hesitate. She leapt down, her boots hitting the cobblestones hard before she followed close behind. The cold morning air whipped at her cloak as she sprinted through the gate and into Wrenwall once more.

They cut through narrow corridors and arched passageways, their footsteps thundering across the stone. The alarm bells had not been rung, but the tension in the air was unmistakable, something had gone wrong inside the keep.

Cithria rounded a corner and nearly collided with Morn, who had come to a sudden stop. Ahead, the sound of shouting and steel clashing echoed from the next hall.

Cithria didn't know why, but she groaned inwardly the moment she looked past Morn.

Garen stood at the center of the commotion, his sword drawn but held low, not in threat, but in warning. His stance was controlled, shoulders squared, every inch the image of a commander who demanded discipline even amid chaos.

Beside him, Shyvana's expression was dark, fury simmering behind her eyes, though, curiously, it wasn't directed at Asta.

No, Cithria realized with a small frown. Shyvana's anger was fixed squarely on the MageSeekers stationed at Wrenwall.

The three of them, however, didn't so much as glance her way. Their focus, sharp and unwavering, was aimed past Asta, at the trembling boy hiding behind him.

'The boy is a mage?' Cithria thought, suppressing a heavier groan. 'Hess was right. This really is turning into a right mess.'

The child couldn't have been more than thirteen winters old. His clothes were simple, the sort worn by farmers' children, his boots caked in mud. Dirty brown hair fell into his wide eyes, which were glossy with unshed tears. He tried to stand tall, tried not to cry, but the fear etched into his face betrayed him.

And rightfully so.

Cithria knew exactly what awaited mages in Demacia, and things had only grown worse since Sylas' rebellion and the death of King Jarvan III.

Prince Jarvan's grief had turned to fury, and from that fury came a kingdom gripped by fear. Every village, every stronghold, every garrison, MageSeekers were out in force, hunting for even the faintest glimmer of magic.

Cithria herself had helped suppress two riots since Meltridge. She remembered the anger in the people's eyes, the despair in their voices as they cried out against Demacia's laws. Families torn apart, children dragged away in the night for something they could neither control nor understand.

And now, looking at the boy trembling behind Asta's broad frame, she could see the same story unfolding again, only this time, right in front of Garen.

She guessed the boy's family must have hidden him well. Hidden him for years, maybe, living in constant fear of discovery. If Asta hadn't drawn so much attention to Wrenwall, they might've managed to keep him safe a little longer.

 

[SaberGlory]

The boy trembled where he hid behind the tall, white-haired man. Asta stood firm, his broad frame completely shielding the child from view.

Across from them, five MageSeekers stood tense, their silver masks glinting in the torchlight. The faint hum of runic restraints filled the air, sharp and accusing. Between the two groups, Garen advanced slowly, his heavy steps echoing off the stone floor of Wrenwall's inner courtyard.

"What is going on here?" Garen demanded, his voice calm but commanding. "And Asta... step away from the child."

Asta didn't move. His tone, though steady, carried an edge of defiance. "He's scared, Garen. Terrified. Like he knows his life's about to end. Why is that?"

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the wind scraping through the courtyard banners. Garen's gaze shifted toward the MageSeekers. "The boy is a mage? How are you certain of this?"

Two of the MageSeekers, those who had accompanied them from Meltridge, looked uneasy. The remaining three, however, stood unshaken beneath Garen's scrutiny.

The leader among them stepped forward. He was a dark-skinned man, broad-shouldered and composed, with a silver half-mask that gleamed across the left side of his face. When he spoke, his voice carried the clipped precision of a man too familiar with authority.

"With the dark mage already apprehended," he began, his tone cold, "we conducted a procedural sweep of the region to ensure there were no lingering traces of corruption."

He spat the final word like a curse. "That required a search of nearby homes. If there was magic left behind, or worse, mages who had slipped through our notice, it was our duty to find them."

The MageSeeker's masked face turned toward the boy. "The GreyMark reacted instantly to his presence. The reading was undeniable. He is one of them."

Asta's expression hardened. "He's a child. That's what he is."

The MageSeeker sneered. "They all start that way."

Before anyone could respond, a strangled cry broke out behind Cithria. She turned sharply, startled, and for the first time realized that the commotion had drawn a crowd, villagers, guards, even castle servants pressing in around the courtyard walls.

A woman was struggling against two soldiers holding her back, her face streaked with tears. "He's my son!" she cried out, her voice cracking. "Please, don't hurt him! He's just a child! He's all I have left!"

Her words hit like a physical blow, echoing through the courtyard. The boy flinched at the sound, trying to hide even deeper behind Asta's cloak.

Cithria felt something twist painfully in her chest. The woman's desperation, the child's fear, it all painted too clear a picture. She knew the truth of Demacia's laws. Even now, after Sylas' rebellion and the death of King Jarvan III, things had only grown harsher.

The Sword-Captain's jaw tightened. He didn't look at Asta right away, instead turning his gaze toward the crying woman and the trembling boy. His grip on Judgment shifted slightly, the faint scrape of metal against scabbard barely audible.

Then he exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Demacia's justice," he said, "is not mine to question. The laws stand."

He stepped closer to the MageSeekers, his voice steady but heavy with command. "The boy will be taken into custody. He will not be harmed, nor mistreated. You will deliver him safely to the capital, and he will stand trial before the Council."

The lead MageSeeker inclined his head stiffly. "As it should be, my lord."

Asta's shoulders tensed. "Trial?" His voice cracked with disbelief. "He's a kid! You think that's justice?!"

Garen turned to him then, blue eyes hard as steel. "I think justice doesn't stop being justice just because it's difficult."

Asta took a step forward, his expression darkening. For a heartbeat, the MageSeekers reached for their staves, but Garen raised a hand, warning them to stand down.

"This isn't your land," Garen said quietly. "You don't understand the history we carry, or what's at stake if we fail to keep magic contained."

"I understand fear," Asta shot back. "I understand people getting crushed because of it. You're no different from the ones back home who looked down on me just because I was born without magic."

Cithria felt the sting in those words. Yet Garen only stared back, unmoving, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his tone was grave. "If you truly believe you understand fear, then understand this, our kingdom was nearly torn apart because we ignored it. I won't let that happen again."

The boy whimpered softly. The sound drew every eye for an instant, fragile, human, and small. Asta looked back at him, and Cithria saw his anger falter just slightly.

The MageSeekers moved forward again, one producing a containment shackle that pulsed faintly with runic light. The mother's cries grew louder, her pleas breaking into hoarse sobs as she tried to push past the guards.

Asta's fists clenched, knuckles whitening, but Garen's voice came firm and final.
"Enough."

The single word silenced the courtyard.

He turned to his soldiers. "See that the woman is looked after. The boy will be escorted under full guard to the great city. Asta..." He met the young man's furious stare. "...I suggest you stand aside."

Asta's jaw worked silently for a moment, then he exhaled through his nose, the tension in his frame radiating like heat. "...You talk about justice," he said quietly, before turning to face the boy.

Cithria noticed the shift in Asta's expression, the tension in his jaw eased, replaced by a warm, disarming smile. He knelt slightly, placing a steady hand on the boy's trembling shoulder.

"Hey, kid," he said gently. "What's your name?"

The boy hesitated, eyes darting past Asta toward the soldiers and MageSeekers encircling them. His lower lip quivered.

But Asta moved his head into the boy's line of sight, forcing his gaze back toward him. His tone softened, but there was a firmness beneath it, a quiet, unshakable confidence.

"No. Don't look at them," he said. "Look at me. They're not going to hurt you. No matter what happens, they can't hurt you. Understand?"

The boy didn't nod. He didn't believe it, Cithria could see that in his eyes. And she couldn't blame him.

Around them, the crowd murmured uneasily. Garen stood a few paces away, watching in silence, his expression unreadable. Even the MageSeekers seemed momentarily thrown off, unsure what to make of this strange, foreign man speaking so calmly in the face of Demacia's law.

Finally, the boy spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "D… Darryl."

Asta's grin widened. "Darryl, huh? Wow, that's an awesome name."

He ruffled the boy's messy brown hair, earning a startled blink from him. Then, without hesitation, Asta said something that made every soldier within earshot stiffen.

"So, I hear you have magic," he said cheerfully. "That's amazing. You've got a wonderful gift, you know that?"

The words hit like a hammer blow. Cithria felt the air leave her lungs. Even Darryl froze, eyes widening in disbelief.

Asta, however, was completely unfazed.

"I'm not joking," he went on, his tone earnest. "Where I come from, people dream of having awesome magic. I trained my ass off for years trying to awaken mine… but it turned out I didn't have any. Not even a drop."

A few soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. The MageSeekers whispered among themselves, unable to tell if he was mocking them or telling the truth.

Asta straightened slightly, his voice growing firmer. "That wasn't going to stop me, though. I made a promise to myself, that I'd still reach my goal, magic or not."

Cithria frowned, unsure what to make of his words. Around them, tension hung thick in the air, but Asta seemed untouched by it. If anything, he looked genuinely proud of what he was saying.

The boy, Darryl, peeked up at him, still trembling but clearly drawn in. His voice came out small, shaky.

"G-Goal?" he whispered.

Asta smiled, a quiet confidence lighting up his face. "That I'd become the strongest in my kingdom. That I'd earn the most merits. That I'd be a beacon of hope for everyone, rich or poor, orphan or noble. That I'd become the Wizard King, the strongest mage of them all."

Cithria noticed the boy's eyes widen slightly in awe before he quickly averted his gaze, fear tightening his expression as he remembered where he was.

The group fell silent, their attention drawn to Asta as if his words carried a weight that none of them could ignore.

"Do you know what I did after that?" Asta asked, his tone light but steady. "I joined the Magic Knights, even though I had no magic at all. I made it into one of the nine squads that protect the Clover Kingdom. And then I trained harder than anyone. I fought harder than anyone. I pushed myself until the people around me began to believe in me."

He glanced around at the soldiers, his voice steady but filled with passion. "Now, I stand before you as the leader and squad captain of the Black Bulls, the second-strongest squ... err, order in the entire kingdom. I'm closer to my dream than anyone ever thought I could be."

Garen stepped forward, his armored boots clinking against the cobblestone. "What's the point of this, Asta?"

Asta scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "Good question. Why am I telling you all this?" His gaze shifted toward the young boy. "Well, Darryl… tell me something. Do you hate your magic?"

Darryl froze. His wide eyes darted to his mother, who shook her head quickly, fear evident in her features.

The safe answer was obvious, yes. Everyone expected him to say it. But then something flickered in the boy's expression, a spark of defiance breaking through his fear.

He shook his head firmly. "I don't hate it! I use it to help Mama, I make the ground soft so she can plant faster. We don't have to work as hard anymore! I don't want to see her hurt her hurt anymore."

There was a collective gasp across the street as the boy cried out, tears streaming down his eyes.

Cithria's heart twisted painfully. He didn't even understand what he'd done, how those innocent words had condemned him.

Asta's expression softened even further, and his hand lingered on the boy's shoulder, steady and reassuring. "That's amazing, Darryl," he said warmly. "You're using your magic to make life better for someone you love. That's what true strength is."

The boy blinked up at him through his tears, uncertain whether to believe the words. Cithria could see the faintest glimmer of pride beneath the fear, that small light in a child's eyes when someone finally sees them as more than a burden.

But not everyone shared Asta's sentiment.

"That's enough," the lead MageSeeker snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip. "You've said quite enough, foreigner. The child's words confirm what we already knew."

He lifted his staff, the runes along its length glowing faintly blue. The hum of restrained magic filled the air once again. "By Demacian law, no mage, child or not, may go unbound within the walls of the realm."

The mother's desperate cry tore through the moment. "Please, no! He's never hurt anyone!"

Darryl trembled with fear, instinctively stepping closer until his forehead brushed against Asta's chest. The older boy chuckled softly and placed a reassuring hand on his head.

"Earth magic, huh?" Asta said with a grin. "I'm willing to bet you'll be a great and powerful mage someday."

Cithria was practically pulling at her hair now. 'What is with this man!? Does he not see the situation? Is he intentionally ignoring everything!?'

"The Black Bulls could use a mage like you," Asta continued, his tone light and genuine. "I don't think we have an Earth mage yet."

His words silenced the crowd all over again.

'What the hell is he talking about!?' That thought rippled through every onlooker.

Even Darryl looked confused, at first. But as Asta's words sank in, his wide eyes began to shimmer with realization.

"Join the Black Bulls, Darryl. It'll be interesting," Asta said with his usual confident grin.

Beside him, his grimoire floated up, glowing faintly red before opening on its own. The sudden motion made the soldiers around tense, hands flying to their weapons.

The pages fluttered rapidly, and then, from within the grimoire, a black mass seeped out like liquid shadow. It expanded, swirling in the air above Darryl before flattening into a thin, rippling surface.

The boy looked up in awe.

Then, like a living thing, the shadow descended, falling gently over him. It settled and tightened, forming into a black robe that clasped neatly at his collar. Gold trims glimmered faintly, and on the front gleamed an insignia, a raging black bull's head, fierce and proud.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

 

[SaberGlory]

Asta's declaration left everyone utterly stunned. The courtyard fell silent, every gaze fixed on the strange young man who had just draped a Demacian child in the colors of his foreign order. Cithria stood frozen where she was, her sword arm limp at her side, unsure if she'd just witnessed an act of madness or heroism.

"What?" Darryl whispered, his small voice breaking the silence. He looked up at Asta in disbelief, his wide eyes shimmering with confusion.

Asta only laughed, warm and carefree, as though the weight of the entire kingdom wasn't pressing down on him. "Welcome to the Black Bulls, kid. The others are going to love you."

Garen took a slow, deliberate step forward, his heavy armor creaking as he reached out to place a hand on Asta's shoulder. "Asta," he said, his tone low but firm, "what are you doing?"

"Well," Asta replied with a shrug, "I don't trust any of you to keep him safe. And I like the kid. Seems like he's got guts."

"No. No, no." Garen shook his head, his patience thinning. "That's not something you can just decide."

Asta rolled his eyes. "Well, sorry about that, but I already did. The kid's a member of the Black Bulls now. Which means if anything happens to him, you'll be picking a fight with us."

The words struck like a spark in dry grass.

"Such insolence!" one of the MageSeekers behind Garen roared, his staff flaring with runic light. "That boy is a citizen of the Great Nation of Demacia!"

Garen raised a hand sharply, silencing him before things could escalate further. His sigh was heavy, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and reluctant admiration. "Asta… I understand why you're doing this. But you don't understand what the consequence..."

"What consequences?" Asta snapped, his tone hardening as he brushed Garen's hand from his shoulder. His eyes met Garen's without hesitation, full of fire and conviction. "You think I care about that? Look me in the eyes, Garen, and tell me he'll be okay. Tell me you'll keep your people from hurting him."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Garen's jaw tightened, but no answer came.

Then, from behind the front line of MageSeekers, one of the two who had accompanied the first squad from the city stepped forward. He was taller than the others, his silver-trimmed cloak swaying as he bowed his head slightly.

"Sir Asta," he began calmly, "I can assure you the child will be well cared for. We only wish to ensure that his power does not endanger himself, or the innocent citizens of Demacia." His tone softened slightly, almost diplomatic. "I would never harm a fellow Demacian."

Asta looked at him with a pitying look. "Why did you have to go and lie to me?" He said. "You really were going to hurt a child weren't you? Your own ki betrays you."

"Ki?" The MageSeeker said confused.

Asta turned back to Garen. "I understand that this is not my land. However, as I have found myself here for the time being that makes me an Emissary from the kingdom of Clover."

Garen stared at Asta as he understood what he was getting at. "...I see."

Garen's gaze lingered on Asta for a long, heavy moment. The sound of wind through the courtyard banners was the only thing moving between them now. The man's sheer audacity, to invoke diplomacy after nearly igniting a standoff, was something that even Garen couldn't decide whether to admire or condemn.

"You would claim the rights of an emissary," Garen finally said, his voice measured.

The tension in the air crackled like kindling about to catch fire. The MageSeekers behind Garen began to murmur among themselves, uncertain whether to take that as an insult or a declaration of war.

Darryl stood between them, clutching the edges of the oversized Black Bull cloak around his shoulders. The insignia, an absurd, grinning bull skull, hung down to his knees. He didn't understand all of it, but he knew one thing for certain, someone was standing up for him.

"Sir Garen," the silver-trimmed MageSeeker spoke again, his tone tightening. "This foreigner is making a mockery of Demacian law. Permission to restrain him."

Garen didn't answer immediately. His eyes moved to the boy, small, trembling, holding on to that cloak like it was a lifeline. Then to Asta, unarmed, defiant, and yet completely unwavering.

The MageSeekers took Garen's silence as consent. The two standing at the front stepped forward, lifting their staves as runes began to glow across their shafts.

Asta sighed, his voice calm but edged with warning. "Let it go already. He's under my protection now."

"Silence, foreigner!" one of the MageSeekers barked, his staff flaring with golden light.

Asta's eyes narrowed. For the briefest instant, Cithria could have sworn one of them flashed red. "I said," Asta repeated slowly, "let. It. Go."

Thwoom!

The world itself seemed to convulse. The sky turned crimson for a heartbeat as the deafening sound of thunder split the air. A shockwave burst outward from Asta's body, tearing through the courtyard in a violent gust that rattled armor and bent banners backward.

No one moved.

The MageSeeker who had raised his staff froze mid-motion, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. 'What… what is this? This presence? This feeling? What is happening?'

The air had become suffocating, thick and heavy, like invisible chains crushing down on every living thing.

'The air... it's so heavy. So this is the true power of a mage.' Cithria tried to draw her sword, but her fingers wouldn't respond. Her muscles locked under a weight that was not physical. Her heartbeat pounded so violently she thought it might burst. 'Is this even magic?'

Garen gritted his teeth and tried to step forward, only for his heel to lift an inch before slamming back down. "I… can't move," he muttered through clenched teeth. His leg felt like it had turned to stone.

Across from them, the MageSeeker's breath came out in short, ragged gasps. Panic twisted across his face as he dropped to one knee. 'Can't… breathe… It's like my body's being crushed from the inside out…'

And then, everything vanished.

The courtyard dissolved into darkness. The MageSeeker found himself suspended in a void, endless and cold. Two colossal crimson eyes opened before him, vast enough to swallow the horizon. They stared into him, through him, until every trace of thought dissolved into primal terror.

'Everything in my body is screaming. That If I stay here any longer… I'll…'

D. E. A. T. H.

His body went limp. The staff clattered against the stone as he collapsed, eyes rolled back, foam spilling from his mouth.

And just like that, it was over.

The pressure vanished. The sky returned to its calm blue, the courtyard silent save for the sound of the fallen MageSeeker's body hitting the ground.

Asta exhaled quietly, straightening as though nothing had happened. His expression was calm, but his eyes, those faintly glowing red eyes, told a different story.

Garen was the first to move, barely. His armor groaned as he turned toward the fallen MageSeeker, eyes wide with disbelief. The man lay twitching on the cobblestones, his staff rolling out of reach, faint trails of foam still clinging to his lips.

"What… what did you do to him?" Garen demanded, his voice low and cautious, though it lacked its usual authority.

Asta crouched, his tone softening again as he placed a reassuring hand on Darryl's shoulder. "You okay, kid?"

Darryl only nodded, still trembling but trying his best to hold his head up.

"That's good." Asta smiled, standing back up to face the gathered soldiers. "Now, I don't want any more trouble. The boy's coming with me. End of story."

"You can't just take him!" one of the MageSeekers barked, though his voice cracked mid-sentence.

Asta's eyes turned toward him, calm, yet sharp enough to make the man flinch. "Then try to stop me."

No one moved.

Even the birds that had once perched along the city walls had gone quiet.

Finally, Garen raised his hand again, this time not in command, but in restraint. "Enough," he said, his voice weary. He turned to the MageSeekers. "Stand down. That's an order."

"But sir..."

"I said stand down!"

The command echoed across the courtyard, leaving no room for defiance. The MageSeekers hesitated before slowly lowering their staves, though their glares lingered on Asta.

Satisfied, Garen looked back to the foreigner. "You've made your point, Asta. Take him, if you must."

"Sir..." One of the MageSeekers started to say.

"No." Garen's single word cut through the courtyard like a blade. "You will not lay a hand on him."

The MageSeeker's eyes widened. "But..."

"I said no." Garen's tone left no room for argument. "This matter falls under my jurisdiction now. Demacia will not be seen striking down an emissary before due inquiry."

Asta grinned faintly. "Heh. Knew you had a good head under all that armor."

"Don't push your luck," Garen muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.

Cithria finally exhaled, lowering her sword. The crowd began to murmur again, some in disbelief, others in outrage. What they had witnessed was unheard of, a foreign knight forcing the hand of Demacia's most respected commander in the middle of the capital.

But amid the storm of whispers, Darryl's small, shaking voice rose again.

"I... I don't hate magic."

The words seemed to strike harder than any spell could have.

Every head turned toward him.

"I don't!" Darryl shouted, his voice cracking, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "I tried! I really tried to hate it like everyone else, but I can't!"

Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd. Some stepped back as though the confession itself were dangerous. A mother clutched her child closer; a soldier muttered a prayer.

Asta knelt beside him, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. "Then don't," he said quietly. "You don't have to hate what you are."

Darryl sniffled, looking up at him, eyes wet. "But… everyone says I'm cursed."

"Then I guess I'm cursed too," Asta said with a wide grin. "Because I've never had magic, and I turned out just fine."

The boy blinked. "You… don't have magic?"

"Not a drop," Asta said, laughing softly. "And I still became a Magic Knight."

Cithria's hand tightened around her hilt again, not from hostility, but confusion. "A Magic knight… without magic?" she whispered under her breath.

Garen finally turned away, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I will have to report this to the Council," he muttered. "You've put me in an impossible position, Asta."

"Yeah," Asta said cheerfully. "I'm pretty good at that."

For a long time, no one spoke. Then Garen sighed. "Very well. Until the Council decides, the boy stays under your protection. But if you so much as bend the law while in Demacia, I won't hesitate to stop you myself. Even if it costs me my life."

"Fair enough." Asta extended his hand. "Guess that makes us temporary allies."

Garen hesitated, then clasped it firmly. "Temporary," he repeated.

As they shook hands, the courtyard began to disperse, whispers following them like a tide. The MageSeekers withdrew, reluctantly, their eyes burning with quiet fury.

Asta looked down at Darryl, who still clutched the cloak around him. "Looks like you're stuck with me, partner."

Darryl nodded slowly, a shaky smile forming on his face. "Okay… Captain Asta."

Asta grinned. "Heh. Still not used to that."

 

[SaberGlory]

"You don't look very happy."

Shyvana tried to suppress a sigh as soon as she heard Prince Jarvan's voice behind her.

"I'm not," she admitted after a pause, her gaze fixed on her clenched fist. The faint glow of her dragon blood shimmered beneath her skin before fading away again.

Jarvan stepped up beside her, stopping at the tall window overlooking the white-stone expanse of Demacia. Sunlight flooded the city, gilding its towers in gold. "Well? How was the trip? I haven't read Garen's report yet."

Shyvana exhaled slowly, her tone restrained but firm. "The journey was without issue, my prince. As you can see for yourself, we brought back the mage."

Jarvan frowned in mock pain, placing a hand over his chest. "Really, Shyvana? 'My prince'? We've known each other for years. You can call me Jarvan, you know."

She didn't answer. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.

Jarvan's expression softened. "This is really bothering you, isn't it?" He turned to look at her. "How do you feel about him?"

"The mage is dangerous," Shyvana replied immediately, her crimson eyes narrowing like burning coals.

Jarvan raised a brow. "...Alright, that much is obvious. All mages are dangerous. Have you seen you? What you can do?"

Shyvana groaned in frustration. "You don't understand. You weren't there. The others didn't understand it either... they didn't see it. But I did."

She turned toward the window again, her reflection trembling faintly in the glass. "The moment he painted Castle Wrenwall with his colors, I knew. The moment I looked into his eyes…"

Her voice trailed off. For several seconds, only the faint wind through the marble corridor filled the silence.

Jarvan's tone grew quieter. "What was it, Shyvana?"

She looked down at her hand again, watching her claws threaten to emerge. "It took everything we had to defeat my mother... and even then, we barely survived. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw it."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I saw Yvva fall to his blade in a single strike. I saw my death… and yours. And all it would take from him... was one swing."

Jarvan didn't speak right away. His reflection in the window stared back at him, the proud crown prince of Demacia, armored in duty and conviction, yet for the first time in a long while, even he seemed uncertain.

When he finally spoke, his tone was low, deliberate. "You've never said anything like that before."

Shyvana turned slightly toward him. "Because I've never felt anything like that before."

The air between them felt heavy. The hum of distant bells echoed faintly through the marble halls.

Jarvan folded his arms, thinking. When he opened his mouth to speak...

Shyvana shook her head slowly. "No. If he wanted to destroy Wrenwall, he could have. If he wanted to kill us, he would have. He just chose not to."

Jarvan sighed, the weight of his armor seeming heavier with each exhale. "And you're certain it's because of this… 'Anti Magic' he claims to wield? If it's true, that might explain why his presence unsettles you, it could clash with your nature as a being born of magic itself."

Shyvana turned to him, brow furrowed. "I thought you said you hadn't read the report?"

Jarvan allowed a smirk to creep across his face. "I may have… glanced through it before coming up here."

Shyvana shook her head, half in amusement, half in exasperation. "Of course you did."

"But still," Jarvan continued, his tone sharpening, "Anti Magic. It's something far different from our petricite." He paced slowly across the chamber, hands clasped behind his back. "For years I believed petricite was the true nullifier, our great equalizer. Until Sylas…"

His voice faltered. The name left his lips like venom. For a brief moment, pain flashed across his features, anger, grief, and the dull echo of betrayal that had never truly faded.

He clenched a fist. "If this Anti Magic is real, truly real, and we could harness it…" His lips curled into a grin, not of mirth, but of ambition. It was the smile of a man who saw possibility in the impossible. "We could finally..."

Before he could finish, Shyvana's hand shot out and gripped his shoulder, firm enough to stop him mid-thought. Her crimson eyes glowed faintly, intense and worried. "Promise me you'll be careful."

Jarvan blinked, caught off guard by her tone. "What's gotten into..."

"Promise me, Jarvan." Her voice rose just enough to still him. There was no hesitation, no formality, only raw concern.

For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then, slowly, he smiled. "You don't have to worry. I have my seneschal with me, and half the royal guard besides. I'll be careful."

Shyvana shook her head, her grip tightening. "It won't be enough," she said, her tone grave. "Not nearly enough."

Jarvan frowned. "Shyvana, what are you..."

"He isn't like anything we've ever faced," she cut in, her voice low but trembling slightly. "I might be a dragon… but he's something else entirely. He's not a man. He's a monster."

For a brief second, Jarvan saw something in her eyes that he had never seen before, fear.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat as a sharp, mocking voice echoed through the marble corridor.

"Well, isn't that poetic," the voice sneered. "Monsters warning men about monsters. Seems betrayal still comes easy, no matter what form the beast takes."

Both Jarvan and Shyvana turned sharply toward the doorway.

"Good to see some things never change. Even monsters can recognize their own kind."

Jarvan's expression faltered for only a moment before settling back into his composed, princely calm. "Lady Vayne," he greeted evenly. "What brings you here?"

Shyvana's golden eyes narrowed. She didn't miss the way the famed monster hunter's fingers twitched ever so slightly, hovering near her belt, as if fighting the instinct to reach for her weapon. She didn't need to guess why.

Eventually, Vayne tore her gaze from the half-dragon and met Jarvan's eyes. "Prince Jarvan," she said with crisp formality. "It's good to see you again. As for why I'm here, I'll be joining today's council session as the sole representative of House Vayne."

Jarvan's brow lifted. "You? I've never known you to take part in court matters, let alone sit in a council of nobles. What prompted this sudden interest?"

Vayne's stare hardened. "Don't take me for a fool, Your Highness. Your soldiers couldn't keep their mouths shut about the so-called 'monstrous mage' they escorted from Wrenwall. They say he left the town in ruins, and now you've brought that same creature into Silvermere? Tell me, have you lost your mind?"

Shyvana stepped forward with a low growl, heat rising from her skin as faint embers flickered at the corners of her eyes. "How dare you speak to the prince in such a manner?"

Jarvan raised a hand, resting it gently on her shoulder. His calm presence stilled her flames.
"It's alright, Shyvana," he said quietly before turning back to Vayne. "As for your concern, Lady Vayne, it was Garen's decision to bring the young man here. And I trust my friend's judgment implicitly."

Vayne's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "Trust," she echoed, her voice dripping with disdain. "A noble sentiment, Your Highness. But trust can be the noose around a kingdom's neck if given to the wrong person."

Jarvan's eyes narrowed, his patience thinning. "Watch your tone, Lady Vayne. You stand before your prince."

For a moment, silence fell between them, tense and sharp as drawn steel.

Then Vayne lowered her head slightly, though her voice remained steady. "Forgive me, Your Highness. I mean no disrespect to the crown. But I will not sit idle while another threat festers within our walls. I've seen what happens when monsters are given shelter." Her gaze shifted back to Shyvana, and there was venom in her eyes. "We all have."

Shyvana's claws flexed slightly, the faint sound of scale scraping against metal echoing through the chamber.

Jarvan exhaled slowly, the weight of command pressing on his shoulders. "That's enough, both of you."

He turned away from them, looking out through the high windows where sunlight spilled across the banners of Demacia. "If this boy truly wields power unlike any other, then we'll learn the truth through reason, not fear. Garen has vouched for him, and until I see evidence otherwise, that will suffice."

Vayne's jaw tightened. "Then I hope your faith doesn't doom us all, Your Highness."

Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and strode from the chamber, her cloak snapping behind her like the wing of a raven.

Shyvana watched her go, then muttered under her breath, "You shouldn't let her talk to you like that."

Jarvan gave a weary smile. "I don't. But for now, I'd rather save my strength for the council. Something tells me it's going to be a long day."

---

"This is my first time leaving my hometown," Darryl said, his voice bright with awe. "The High Silvermere is so amazing. I never thought I'd see any of this."

He pressed closer to the tall window, eyes wide as he took in the gleaming white stone streets and proud spires of Demacia's capital. Sunlight danced across the marble rooftops, soldiers in polished armor patrolling beneath banners that swayed gently in the mountain breeze.

Asta sat nearby on a long bench in the council antechamber, arms crossed, one foot tapping absently against the floor.

He watched the boy's excitement with a faint smile. For all his own nerves, it was hard not to feel some of Darryl's wonder rubbing off on him. Beyond the ornate double doors ahead, the Council of Demacia was gathering, and the two of them were waiting to be called in.

Asta leaned back against the marble wall, staring at the elaborate carvings etched into the ceiling above. They were all images of heroes, kings, knights, and saints in ages past. It made the air here feel heavier somehow, like even the walls were whispering.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting out a small sigh. "Man... this place really knows how to make you feel unwelcome."

Darryl turned from the window, blinking. "Huh?"

Asta shook his head. "Nothing. Just… thinking out loud."

The boy tilted his head, uncertain, but didn't press. His eyes flicked to the pair of guards standing by the door, tall, stoic, their armor gleaming in the sunlight like living statues. Neither had said a word since Asta and Darryl had been led in.

The silence was broken by the faint sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. The doors creaked open, and a soldier in blue-trimmed armor stepped in, bowing slightly.

"The council will see you now."

Asta pushed himself off the bench, exhaling slowly. "Guess that's our cue."

Darryl nodded, but his earlier excitement was quickly fading, replaced by nervousness. "A-Are you sure we'll be okay in there? I mean… this is the council, right? Like, actual nobles?"

Asta gave him a small grin, clapping him on the shoulder. "We'll be fine. Just stick close and let me do the talking."

"Right," Darryl muttered, though he didn't sound convinced.

They followed the soldier through the massive double doors, and the brightness of the chamber hit them immediately. Sunlight poured in through tall arched windows, casting long, gold streaks across the white floors. Rows of nobles sat on either side of the room, their clothes pristine, their expressions wary.

At the heart and center of the room sat the high council around an octagonal table, Asta noticed that the tallest chair which seemed to be the centre chair was empty.

'That must be the royal family's seat.' Asta thought. 'There really isn't a king? How weird.'

On the left side of the empty chair, sat a woman whose attire drew Asta's gaze easily, or rather, her massive pauldrons. 'They're huge!' he thought internally. 'She's giving off sisgoleon vibes. I better not mess with her."

On the other side of the empty chair sat a man wearing ornate gold and white armor with navy accents, a neatly kept beard, and short dark hair. A golden circlet rested on his head, marking his noble or royal status.

'That must be the prince.' Asta thought. 'Jarvan the fourth.'

Next to Jarvan sat a woman wearing a dark blue catsuit with red accents and red tinted glasses. Her dark hair was in a long ponytail.

Next to her was a female figure of both elegance and lethality. Her lithe frame is clad in gleaming armor, polished to a mirror shine. Her most striking feature is her face, framed by a cascade of fiery red hair.

Back to the woman with massive pauldrons, seated next to her was a tall man. Half of his regal face was covered by a golden mask.

The rest of the council didn't stand out enough to draw Asta's attention as much as the first ones he noticed.

Asta could feel every eye on him as he stepped forward. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.

He stopped at the center of the chamber and raised his head. "Asta of the Black Bulls, reporting as requested."

A low murmur rippled through the gathered nobles, whispers, disbelief, a few outright scoffs.

Vayne's lips curved in faint disdain. "This is him? The so-called 'Anti-Mage'? I was expecting someone… taller."

Asta tilted his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sorry to disappoint. You're not looking hot yourself."

The woman with the massive pauldrons sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if nursing the beginnings of a headache. "Please, refrain from squabbles for the moment," she said, her voice carrying the weight of command. Then, her tone softened slightly. "Welcome to Demacia, Sir Asta."

Straightening her posture, she leaned forward and rested her chin on one gloved hand. "My name is Tianna Crownguard," she introduced herself, her eyes sharp but not unkind. "I am the High Marshal of Demacia and commander of its armies. You now stand before the ruling council."

She gestured gracefully toward the long table. "Seated here is the heir to the throne, and fourth of his name, Prince Jarvan the Fourth. And beside him sits Shayna Vayne, head of House Vayne and Demacia's foremost monster hunter."

The man wearing the golden circlet, Prince Jarvan himself, regarded Asta with a measured expression, his gaze steady and assessing. "You've come a long way from Wrenwall, Asta of the Black Bulls," he said, his tone calm but edged with curiosity. "From what I've read, your arrival there was… eventful."

Asta gave a small shrug, his expression casual. "If by 'eventful' you mean saving that town from a devil, then yeah, that's one way to put it."

Tianna's brow furrowed slightly. "A… devil?" she repeated, glancing toward Jarvan before returning her gaze to Asta. "We received no such reports, no mention of any devils or creatures apart from you and the mage you were fighting."

Asta exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "That mage was the devil in question," he said simply. "Looks like I'll have to do a bit of explaining."

 

[SaberGlory]

Tianna Crownguard remained silent long after the ashen-haired man had finished recounting the tale of the devils from his homeland. The room was heavy with thought, even the faint echo of the torches along the marble walls seemed subdued.

Eldred Crownguard, her husband and the austere leader of the Mageseekers, was the first to speak. His sharp, calculating eyes fixed on Asta.
"So these… devils," he said slowly, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. "You're saying they were all eradicated? Every last one?"

Asta shook his head, his expression steady. "I doubt it. We took down a lot of them, sure, but we only hit specific regions of the underworld. Our main goal was to stop the Tree of Qliphoth from being completed. Once we destroyed it, we cut off their only stable way into our world. Without it, a large-scale invasion became impossible."

Eldred's brows furrowed. "And yet, one of those devils managed to cross through," he said, his tone edged with disapproval.

Asta shrugged lightly. "There'll always be exceptions. Sometimes a devil slips through. Sometimes a human ends up on their side instead. That's just how it works. It's not something that can be controlled. But another invasion like the one we faced? That's not happening. Not without the Tree."

The Mageseeker's lips pressed into a thin line. "Still, to allow creatures of such danger to remain unchecked..."

Asta cut him off, his tone firm but not hostile. "If they're not attacking anyone, then there's no reason to go after them."

The room went quiet again. Several nobles shifted uncomfortably in their seats at the implication, mercy toward monsters was not something Demacians were accustomed to hearing.

From across the table, Vayne leaned back in her chair, arms crossed and expression sharp as glass. "Of course you'd say that," she muttered under her breath, voice laced with contempt.

Tianna shot her a brief, warning glance but said nothing. Asta's gaze flicked toward Vayne for a moment, his eyes calm but unyielding.
He didn't bother responding.

Tianna's tone was calm but probing as she folded her hands on the table. "And how exactly did you and this devil end up in Castle Wrenwall?"

Asta scratched the back of his head, visibly uneasy. "Well… it's kind of a long story. My squad was sent by the current Wizard Queen to investigate some strange events near our kingdom's border. During the mission, we discovered that one of the devils had slipped through and made a contract with a grave robber."

Eldred's brow furrowed. "A grave robber?"

"Yeah," Asta said with a sigh. "When we confronted him, the guy panicked. He thought we were there to arrest him for robbing graves, not for consorting with devils. Things got messy. We could've handled it better, but it ended up in a fight. He wasn't much of a match for our squad, but when he realized he was losing, he tried to run."

He leaned forward slightly, his tone growing more serious. "The grave robber had spatial magic—he could open rifts to escape or sneak into places. When he tried to teleport, I used my anti-magic to stop him. But… I underestimated just how scared of me devils are now. Just how desperate the devil inside him was. The devil poured all of its power into the spell to escape me. The clash between our magics, spatial magic and anti magic, was disastrous."

He paused, his gaze distant for a moment. "Next thing I knew, we were somewhere else entirely."

A faint grimace crossed his face. "The grave robber didn't survive the jump. The magic tore him apart, leaving just the devil and me in a strange, unfamiliar place. That's when things got worse. The devil suddenly started laughing, said something about how the land itself was overflowing with magic, more than I could ever hope to erase. Before I could react, he used that power to freeze the entire castle solid."

Asta gave a small, sheepish smile. "I was still disoriented from the jump, so I couldn't stop him in time. I guess… I owe you all an apology for that."

Eldred paused at Asta's explanation, his expression tightening as he exchanged a glance with Prince Jarvan. The prince's brow furrowed slightly, the faintest grimace crossing his face.

'So just like Sylas, the devil was able to draw magic directly from the petricite foundations of Castle Wrenwall,' Jarvan thought grimly.

Tianna gave a slow nod. "That confirms several of the reports we received," she said thoughtfully. "So the ice was indeed the devil's handiwork. Most of it had already melted by the time the First Shield and the Dragon Guard arrived on scene."

Asta gave a faint, sheepish grin. "Yeah. I tried to help get the town back in order after that. It was my mess to clean up, after all."

Tianna acknowledged the remark with a small nod before folding her hands neatly atop the table. "I see. You've provided your account of how you came to arrive in Demacia, and for now, we will take your words as truth." Her eyes narrowed slightly, her tone shifting to one of measured authority. "However, that leaves us with a more pressing matter. What do you plan to do now?"

Her gaze fixed on Asta. "Sword-Captain Garen Crownguard informed us that you claimed the rights of an Emissary, that you are here as an official Ambassador of the Clover Kingdom to Demacia."

Prince Jarvan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His tone was calm, but his golden eyes gleamed with quiet challenge. "And what makes you so certain that such a title carries any weight here?" he asked. "You've admitted that your kingdom lies in another world, and you've yet to mention any means of returning there."

Asta only shrugged, unfazed by the prince's scrutiny. The casual motion made one of Jarvan's brows twitch in irritation.

"This isn't the first time I've ended up somewhere strange," Asta said with an easy grin. "Stranger things have happened to me before. I don't doubt that Finral will find a way here eventually. It might take some time, sure, but I trust my squad. They'll come for me."

He leaned back slightly, the grin softening into something more resolute. "And if it turns out they can't… then I'll find my way back myself. I'm not the type to give up. I still have to become the Wizard King, after all."

The word Wizard king seemed to draw murmurs from the nobles gathered in a wider circle around the centre table. Most of them discontent.

Across the table, Tianna Crownguard arched an eyebrow, a faint hint of disapproval flickering beneath her composed demeanor. "Yes," she said. "You've mentioned that title several times now. The Wizard King, he is the ruler of your kingdom, yes?"

Asta shook his head immediately. "Not exactly," he said. "The Wizard King isn't the monarch of the Clover Kingdom. He's the leader of the kingdom's military forces, the strongest mage in the entire realm. The title of wizard king is the designated leader of the Clover Kingdom's forces. It is a role of power and distinction. They are the most famous and influential figures in the entire nation, and their fame spreads around the world."

He paused for a moment, his tone steady but carrying a faint pride. "The king handles politics and domestic matters. But the Wizard King, he's the symbol of hope and strength. Every Magic Knight, every citizen looks up to him. His name echoes across nations, not because of birthright, but because of what he's done."

Asta's eyes hardened, determination glinting in the pale torchlight. "It is a title earned solely by merit. You have to be the strongest and greatest mage in the entire nation to earn the title."

The chamber fell silent again. Tianna studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words.

Tianna's eyes lingered on Asta for a long moment, the flickering torchlight reflected faintly in her gaze. The tension in the chamber was palpable, quiet, but sharp as a drawn blade.

When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, deliberate. "A title earned by merit alone," she said. "An admirable system… though one built entirely around magic."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "And you must understand, Sir Asta, Demacia is not like your Clover Kingdom. Here, magic is not a symbol of hope."

That single word, magic, seemed to weigh heavy in the air. Around the table, several of the nobles stiffened. Vayne's fingers drummed against the armrest of her chair; Eldred's jaw tightened ever so slightly.

Asta sighed, sensing the shift in atmosphere. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I picked up on that."

Eldred leaned forward, his tone cold and sharp. "Then you understand our concern. Magic is a poison that corrupts even the best of men. We've seen it destroy families, topple cities, and turn good people into monsters. And yet you..." his eyes narrowed.

Asta's eyes didn't waver. "You're wrong."

The words were soft but carried through the hall like steel against stone. Eldred's expression hardened instantly, but Asta continued before anyone could interrupt.

"Magic isn't good or bad," he said, his voice steady, unflinching. "It's what people do with it that matters. I've seen devils use it to destroy lives… but I've also seen people use it to save them. People without a single drop of malice in their hearts."

He looked straight at Eldred then, meeting the man's scorn head-on. "If you've only ever seen magic bring pain, then maybe you've just been looking at the wrong people."

A low murmur rippled through the room. It was the kind of thing no outsider would ever dare say in Demacia, especially not to the Mageseekers. Vayne's eyes narrowed to slits, and even Tianna's calm expression faltered for a brief second.

Eldred's voice came low and dangerous. "Careful, boy."

Asta simply shrugged. "I've fought things that could swallow whole countries. You don't scare me."

Prince Jarvan finally raised a hand, breaking the rising tension before it could explode. "That's enough," he said firmly. His gaze shifted to Asta, still intense but more analytical than angry. "You're not wrong that magic itself can be used for good or ill…" He glanced behind him, where Shyvana stood guard to protect him. "...but you're speaking to a nation built upon the suffering it caused. Do not expect words alone to change what centuries of scars have done."

Internally Jarvan continued. 'It didn't stop my father from being killed by magic.'

Asta nodded. "I don't. I'm not here to change your nation. I never even planned to stay at all. But I stayed to prove that not everyone who wields magic is your enemy."

That seemed to quiet the room, not entirely calm, but no longer teetering on the edge of hostility. Tianna regarded him with an unreadable expression, while Vayne's glare lingered, sharp and untrusting.

After a moment, Tianna spoke again, her voice softer but still edged with authority. "And yet, despite that claim, you brought chaos to our borders and devastation to Wrenwall, however unintentionally. You must understand that to many in this room, you are still a threat."

Asta didn't flinch. "I get that," he said. "But if I really wanted to harm this place, I wouldn't be standing here talking to you."

"Speaking of chaos," Eldred said, as he glanced at the boy who stood behind Asta yet hadn't spoken a word since. "Would you explain what is going on with that child behind you."

Darryl felt the weight of the room crash onto his shoulders all at once. The stares of nobles, Mageseekers, and soldiers pressed down on him harder than any physical force ever could. He froze, his small hands tightening around the edges of the Black Bull cloak that hung loosely from his frame, the insignia swaying faintly as though trying to shield him.

Asta took a subtle step forward, positioning himself between the boy and the scrutiny of the council. "He's under my protection," he said firmly.

Eldred's eyes narrowed. "That isn't what I asked, foreigner. I asked what he is."

The words sent a shiver through the chamber. Tianna's frown deepened, but she didn't interrupt.

Asta's jaw tightened. "He's a kid," he said, voice even but carrying a quiet defiance. "A Demacian, just like you. The only difference is that he was born with magic."

Murmurs rippled through the gathered nobles, sharp whispers, laced with disbelief and disgust. Vayne scoffed openly, her fingers tightening against her armrest. "And you took him under your wing? How noble," she said coldly. "You're harboring a danger to our people."

Asta's gaze flicked to her, calm yet cutting.

Vayne's lips parted, but Tianna raised a hand before the argument could spiral. Her tone was cool, controlled. "Sir Asta, you understand how such an act can be perceived in Demacia. Harboring a magic-born, even a child, is a direct violation of the Crown's edicts."

"I understand," Asta said, his voice steady. "But I wasn't about to let your soldiers drag a crying boy into chains. I've seen what happens to people when they're treated like monsters for something they never chose. I won't stand by and let that happen again."

For a long moment, Tianna simply studied him, this foreigner who spoke with the conviction of someone who had already carried a thousand battles on his back.

Then her gaze shifted to Darryl. "Child," she said softly, though her voice still held the authority of a noble. "Is this true? You possess magic?"

Darryl hesitated, his breath trembling. He looked up at Asta, who gave him a small, encouraging nod. The boy swallowed hard and took a timid step forward.

"Y-Yes," he admitted quietly. "It's true. But I don't hurt people! I, I never want to."

Vayne's brow arched, unimpressed. "That's what they all say."

"Enough," Tianna said sharply. Then, softer, "What kind of magic?"

"Asta said it's earth magic," Darryl answered honestly, shaking his head. "Sometimes… i help my mom make the ground softer so she doesn't have to hurt herself digging. It's easier to till the fields."

The boy's voice cracked at the end, and for a fleeting moment, even Tianna's expression softened.

Eldred, however, was unmoved. His gaze was cold, his voice sharper than a blade. "You expect us to simply let him walk freely under the protection of a man who refuses to acknowledge the laws of this land?"

Asta met that gaze head-on. "Yeah," he said simply. "Because locking him up won't make him any safer, for you or for himself."

The Mageseeker's chair scraped faintly against the marble floor as he leaned forward. "You speak as though you understand the consequences of magic better than Demacia itself."

"I've lived them," Asta replied. His tone wasn't boastful, just matter-of-fact. "I've fought people who thought magic made them gods, and I've fought devils who thought they could rule the world. I've seen what real danger looks like. This kid?" He glanced back at Darryl. "He's not it."

The silence that followed was thick, the kind that carried the weight of judgment. The nobles exchanged looks, Tianna's eyes lowered briefly, while Jarvan tapped a finger against the table, thoughtful.

Finally, the prince broke the quiet. "You do realize," he said, his tone measured, "that by protecting him, you are also placing yourself under Demacia's scrutiny. If he loses control, even once, the fault will rest entirely on your shoulders. Even as an ambassador, your position won't save you."

Asta didn't blink. "Then I'll take that risk."

Tianna's lips parted, but she found no immediate retort. His words hung in the air like an unshakable vow.

After a long pause, she sighed softly. "Very well. Until a proper ruling is made, the boy will remain under your guardianship. But understand this, Sir Asta, any harm that comes to Demacian citizens by his hand, or by yours, will be answered with the full weight of our law."

Asta nodded once. "Fair enough."

Eldred scowled, clearly displeased. "You're allowing sentiment to cloud judgment, my lady," he muttered.

Tianna's tone cooled instantly. "And you're allowing fear to replace reason, Lord Eldred. Demacia does not strike children in chains while they still have a chance to be guided."

Her husband's mouth tightened, but he said nothing further.

That answer drew silence again.

Then Tianna exhaled slowly and leaned back in her chair. "We will take your explanation under advisement. For now, you remain under Demacian custody, as a guest, though your movements will be restricted until further notice."

Asta smiled faintly, nodding. "Fair enough. I can work with that."

The casual tone earned him another round of wary looks, but Tianna ignored them. "Very well. The council will adjourn for now. Sir Asta, we will summon you again once the council has deliberated."

As the nobles began to rise from their seats, their hushed whispers filled the chamber, the words mage, monster, and devilspawn echoing faintly under their breath.

Through it all, Asta simply stood, calm and steady. The weight of their mistrust was nothing new to him. He'd lived with it his entire life.

Asta waited until most of them had left before glancing back at Darryl, who still looked uncertain.

"Hey," Asta said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You did great in there."

Darryl looked up, nervous but relieved. "Are… are we in trouble?"

Asta grinned. "Probably. But don't worry, that's kind of my specialty."

---

- MageSeekers Master's Office -

Within a vast, white-clad chamber that resembled a cathedral more than an office, the air was filled with the deep, resonant tones of a white and gold pipe organ. Sunlight streamed through the tall stained-glass windows, scattering soft rays across polished marble floors and gilded pillars.

Seated before the instrument was Eldred Crownguard, the stoic and calculating leader of the MageSeekers. His expression was calm, almost meditative, as his fingers glided across the keys in precise, deliberate motion. It had only been a few hours since the mage from another world had stood before the Council of Demacia, yet Eldred's mind still lingered on that meeting.

The rhythmic echo of footsteps approached from behind him. Without turning, Eldred's voice broke the stillness, smooth and cold. "So now you know how it feels, Wisteria, when a prisoner escapes."

The music did not falter as he spoke, though there was an edge of disappointment woven into the melody.

The woman who entered, a MageSeeker with violet hair and a half-golden mask covering the left side of her face, bowed her head in shame.
"He defeated me in combat, sir," she said softly. "Please… punish me as you see fit."

The organ's final note lingered, then faded. Eldred rose from his seat, his long coat shifting with the motion, and turned to face her fully. "Don't let this become personal, Wisteria," he warned, his tone firm but not unkind. "If you do, your judgment will be clouded."

Wisteria's hands clenched at her sides. "Sylas has betrayed everything we were taught. I still have control over my magic, but he… he's become a monster."

Eldred regarded her quietly for a moment before giving a slow nod. "You have the strength that he does not. And we will need that strength. With the king dead, the kingdom teeters on the edge of instability. Jarvan IV is still young, his rule fragile." His gaze drifted toward the tall window, where the banners of Demacia hung heavy in the light. "This rebellion endangers more than our order. And now, with a mage from another world taking residence within our borders…"

He paused, the faintest frown forming. "The balance grows ever more uncertain."

Wisteria's eyes widened beneath the glint of her half-golden mask. "Sir? A mage from another world? What do you mean?"

Eldred turned away from her, his hands clasped neatly behind his back as he gazed out through the tall, arched window. The afternoon light painted the white walls in soft gold. "You've been away on assignment, Wisteria. It seems you've missed quite a few developments."

His tone was calm but deliberate as he recounted the events of the past few days, the mysterious arrival of the foreign mage, the disturbance at Castle Wrenwall, and the subsequent council meeting that had left half the court unsettled and the other half silent.

When he finished, Wisteria's brows furrowed in disbelief. "And the council allowed this to happen? I don't understand. He's a mage, a foreign one at that! A threat who openly flaunts his magic before our very eyes. Why has he not been accosted?" Her voice grew sharper, frustration edging her tone. "Forgive me, Lord Eldred, but that trial was a sham!"

Eldred let out a quiet chuckle, a dry sound that carried little warmth. "No need to apologize. I am well aware of how much of a 'sham' it was." He turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "It seems my wife was… persuaded by the accounts given by her nephew and the stories spun by this young mage. They are cautious, afraid, even. If even a fraction of his claims hold truth, then he is incredibly powerful. To provoke him recklessly would be unwise, and costly."

Wisteria took a step forward, fists tightening at her sides. "What are you going to do, Lord Eldred? Surely you don't intend to let him wander freely? I doubt he's as powerful as he pretends to be. We can't allow a mage to roam Demacia unchecked."

Eldred smiled faintly, though the gesture never reached his eyes. He turned from the window, walking back toward the organ as his gloved fingers brushed across its gilded frame.

"What will I do indeed…" he murmured, the quiet hum of his voice carrying a hint of amusement, and something far more dangerous beneath.

 

[SaberGlory]

When Darryl woke up that morning, he did so on the most comfortable bed he had ever had the fortune of sleeping in.

"I still can't believe this is real," he murmured, rubbing his eyes and letting out a long yawn. The soft white sheets rustled as he pushed them aside and sat up.

The bed was enormous, far too large for his small frame, and the room around him looked like something straight out of a noble's tale. White walls trimmed with gold, polished marble floors, and elegant furnishings that gleamed in the early morning light streaming through the tall windows. Even the air smelled faintly of lavender and polished wood.

His gaze drifted upward, admiring the high ceiling with its intricate golden patterns. Then he noticed a small dent near the center.

"Huh. That wasn't there last night," he said, tilting his head. Shrugging it off, he stood and stretched with a content sigh, his joints popping quietly. "Still can't believe this is real," he repeated, grinning to himself.

He wandered over to the mirror set against the wall and blinked at his reflection. His hair, once a dull, dirty brown, now shone with a warm golden hue under the morning light. His skin looked cleaner too, almost glowing.

"Man… that bath last night was amazing," he whispered, remembering the steam, the perfumed oils, and how the water had felt softer than anything.

And what a bath it had been. For someone who had grown up with cold river water and wooden tubs, the warm scented bath of the High Silver Mere felt almost like magic. He hadn't known something so simple could feel that wonderful.

After the intimidating meeting with the council the previous day, Darryl and Asta, or rather, Captain Asta, as he now preferred to call him, had been escorted to their assigned residence in the northern quarter of the city.

Darryl had spent the entire ride wide-eyed, drinking in every sight as they passed through what could only be described as the richest district in all of Demacia. The streets were broad and clean, the buildings gleamed with pale stone and golden trim, and banners bearing the Crownguard crest fluttered proudly in the morning wind. It was everything he had ever imagined the great city of Demacia to be, and more.

Apparently, as an emimimisary, or however that impossible word was supposed to be said, Captain Asta was considered an important guest of Demacia. That status came with a lavish residence in the noble district, complete with attendants, polished halls, and food that smelled too good to eat.

The highlight of the trip, however, had been the moment Darryl caught sight of the Galio Monument towering above the city. He had squealed, in a totally manly way, of course, at seeing one of Demacia's greatest protectors with his very own eyes.

Everything about this new life felt surreal, almost too good to be true. The only thing that dulled the excitement was the thought of his mother. How he wished she could see all this with him. Still, Captain Asta had promised that once he started "getting paid," he'd make sure Darryl's family lived comfortably.

Darryl didn't fully understand what getting paid meant in this strange, noble world, but he wasn't about to question it. Instead, he looked toward the window, smiling softly.

"Look at me, Mama," he whispered. "I'm in the great city of Demacia. Just you wait… things are finally getting better."

Darryl's stomach growled loudly, interrupting his quiet moment of pride.

He blinked, then chuckled to himself. "Guess I'm still me," he said, patting his belly. "All this fancy living, and I still wake up starving."

He shuffled across the cool marble floor toward the door, hesitating for a moment before turning the golden handle. The hallway outside was even grander than his room, white stone arches lined with tall, glass-paneled windows, sunlight streaming in to paint the walls in soft gold. A pair of servants walked by carrying fresh linens, giving polite bows as they passed. Darryl awkwardly waved back, unsure if that was what he was supposed to do.

"Morning!" he said, his voice cracking slightly.

They smiled faintly but didn't reply, disappearing down the corridor with practiced grace.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Right… nobles don't talk to servants. Or was it servants don't talk to nobles? Wait, am I a noble?" He frowned. "Man, this is confusing."

Still, the smell of freshly baked bread drifting from downstairs pulled him along. He followed his nose until he reached a spacious dining hall, where long tables were already set with food that looked almost too beautiful to eat. Platters of steaming rolls, fruits glistening like gems, and even silver pitchers that seemed to shimmer with cold mist.

Darryl's eyes widened. "Oh, sweet winged light…" he whispered.

At the head of the table sat Asta, or Captain Asta, as everyone in the manor had started calling him, wearing his usual black outfit, though now cleaned and patched up. He was halfway through a massive plate of food, chewing contentedly with zero noble manners whatsoever.

"Morning, Darryl," Asta said between bites, raising a hand in greeting. "You sleep well?"

Darryl grinned and slid into the seat across from him. "Beds are amazing! It's like I was sleeping on clouds."

Asta laughed. "Yeah, same here. Still not used to all this luxury stuff. Feels weird not having to fight something before breakfast. Man I miss the guys already."

Darryl chuckled, then hesitated, glancing around. "So… we're really staying here? In the noble district? Just like that?"

Asta swallowed and shrugged. "For now, yeah. They said they're 'reviewing' my position or whatever that means. As long as they don't try to lock me up, I'll take it."

Darryl tilted his head. "You think they trust you?"

That earned a short, dry laugh from Asta. "Not even a little."

The way he said it made Darryl blink. Asta wasn't angry, more amused than anything, but there was something in his tone, a quiet awareness of where they stood. He was the one thing Demacia hated most, sitting right in the middle of their shining city.

"Still," Asta added, taking another bite. "They haven't kicked me out yet. That's a start."

Darryl leaned on the table, his voice low. "You think they'll let you stay long?"

Asta looked out the window toward the distant spires of the capital, where white banners adorned with gold crests fluttered proudly under the morning sun. His reflection in the glass caught the faintest glint of amusement.

"That depends," he said with a shrug. "I've already chased off three assassins in the few hours we've been here. They really don't like me."

The words hung in the air like a stray arrow that had missed its mark, quiet, but sharp enough to sting. Darryl froze, his half-eaten roll forgotten in his hand.

Then Asta laughed, easy and light, as if he'd just made a casual remark about the weather. "Their loss," he said, flashing a grin. "I'm an amazing person, after all. And a future Wizard King."

Darryl blinked slowly. "Wait… assassins?" he asked, his voice pitching slightly higher. "There were assassins?"

His mind raced back to the small dent he'd seen on the ceiling earlier that morning. His stomach dropped. 'That really wasn't there last night,' he thought grimly.

Asta only laughed harder. "Don't worry about it, kid. It's not like they could do anything to me. Honestly, it was kind of fun, chasing them around and scaring the life out of them."

He said it so casually that it made Darryl's skin crawl.

Darryl glanced around the table, half expecting a shadow to drop from the ceiling or a blade to flash out from under the furniture.

Asta noticed the boy's wary glances and shook his head with a laugh. "Really, there's no need to worry. You'll get used to it soon enough. After all," he said, reaching over to ruffle Darryl's hair, "you're a member of the Black Bulls now."

Darryl blinked, still processing the words. "...Right. Black Bulls," he muttered, gripping his roll a little tighter. "No fear. Totally fine."

Asta leaned back with a grin, clearly enjoying himself. "That's the spirit."

---

The courtyard behind their residence was as pristine as the rest of the manor, trimmed hedges, marble fountains, and polished stone paths that gleamed in the sunlight. A place meant for tea parties and polite sword duels… not for what Asta had in mind.

"Alright, Darryl!" Asta called, his voice echoing across the yard as he stood in the middle of the open space, stretching his arms. "We're starting your training today."

Darryl blinked, halfway through a piece of bread he'd snuck from the dining hall. "Training? Like, actual magic training?"

Asta grinned. "Of course! You're a black bull now, right? Can't have you falling behind. I need to make sure you can survive Magna's initiation attack."

"But…" Darryl's gaze flicked around nervously. "We're in Demacia, Captain. They... uh... they don't like magic here."

"Yeah, I noticed," Asta said, cracking his knuckles.

Before Darryl could protest, Asta drew his grimoire, the familiar pages fluttering to life as wind whipped through the yard.

Darryl's eyes widened. "C-Captain! Someone's going to see!"

"Let them," Asta said simply. His smile was calm, but there was a defiant spark in his eyes. "I'm not hiding what I am. And neither should you."

He raised his sword, the black edge gleaming. "Now, show me what you can do."

Darryl hesitated. "But I don't, I can't use magic like you..."

"Even if that's true," Asta cut in, resting his sword against his shoulder, "I still know enough about magic from my friends... and my enemies."

He stepped forward, planting his boots firmly on the courtyard stone and gesturing for Darryl to mirror him. "We'll start with getting your body up to par first. Just because you have magic doesn't mean you should neglect your physical strength." A grin tugged at his lips. "When we're done, you'll have so many rippling muscles you won't even need magic to win fights."

Darryl couldn't help but laugh as Asta started striking exaggerated poses, flexing his arms and biceps like a traveling circus performer. "You look so weird, Captain!"

Asta laughed with him, unabashed. "Weird? Nah, this is what greatness looks like! Anyway, after that, we'll work on magic reinforcement. It's one of the basics back home. Everyone can do it once they get the hang of it. Then comes mana skin, though that one's a little advanced. Oh! And I should totally teach you ki too. Man, by the time we're done, you'll be awesome!"

Darryl tried to laugh along, but his grin faltered when he realized how serious Asta actually was. "All… all that?" he asked weakly.

"Of course!" Asta said brightly. "And as for earth spells, well, that one's a mystery. Back home, your spells just came to you naturally. So, we'll have to wait and see what kind you awaken."

Darryl swallowed hard and nodded. "Okay, Captain. I'm ready."

Asta's grin widened. "That's the spirit!" he said, slamming a fist into his open palm. "Now drop and give me a hundred of everything."

Darryl blinked. "…What?"

Before he could react, Asta grabbed him by the head with one hand and lifted him off the ground effortlessly. "Did I stutter?" he said, grinning ear to ear. "Come on, Darryl! You wanna get stronger, right? Then be ready to break past your limits!"

Darryl flailed his legs helplessly. "Wait, one hundred of what exactly?!"

"All of it!" Asta said cheerfully. "Push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and laps! Oh, and no magic to help either!"

Somewhere above the manor walls, a few Demacian guards paused at the sound of shouting and looked over the edge, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the foreign "emissary" holding a boy upside down by the head in the middle of a noble courtyard.

"...Should we intervene?" one of them asked quietly.

The senior guard beside him sighed. "He's the foreign envoy, remember? Orders were clear. We can't interfere."

Below, Asta dropped Darryl to the ground and clapped his hands once. "Alright! Time to get started!"

Darryl groaned. "Why does getting stronger already sound like torture…?"

Asta just laughed, his voice echoing across the marble courtyard. "Because that's how you know it's working!"

 

[SaberGlory]

"H-Hey… he's still going. It's been hours," one of the guards said, disbelief etched across his face.

The older guard beside him exhaled heavily, leaning against the parapet. "He's a monster, alright. And it's got nothing to do with being a mage. Since he moved in a week ago, he's been doing this every single day."

Both men stood atop the manor's outer wall, gazing down into the courtyard below, the pristine training grounds of the foreign "emissary" they were assigned to protect. Although, at this point, protecting might've been a stretch.

Down below, Asta was flat on his back, hammering out sit-ups with the intensity of a soldier possessed. His body moved in a steady rhythm, his calls echoing through the courtyard, "Eight thousand nine hundred seventy-two! Eight thousand nine hundred seventy-three!"

It wasn't the exercise itself that unsettled the guards. It was the sheer, impossible endurance of it all. The man had already completed twenty thousand push-ups, twenty thousand squats, and was now approaching nine thousand sit-ups, all without breaking stride.

The younger guard finally shook his head, his tone half-wonder, half-fear. "Are we sure he's a mage, sir? I've never heard of one like this."

"You and me both, soldier," the senior guard replied with a wry smirk. "In fact, I doubt there is another mage like him anywhere. Between you and me, I wouldn't be surprised if he could outmatch even Lady Fiora Laurent herself."

The younger man's eyes went wide. "You mean THE Fiora Laurent? Demacia's best duelist? That's… that's impossible! How could you even guess that, Captain?"

The older guard's grin turned smug as he crossed his arms. "I heard it from Merek himself, my sister's husband. He was stationed at Castle Wrenwall when the foreign mage challenged Garen Crownguard to a duel."

The younger guard nearly choked on his breath. "THE Garen Crownguard? Leader of the Dauntless Vanguard? Why in the Light would he do something so foolish?"

The senior guard chuckled, shaking his head. "You wouldn't be calling it foolish, boy… not after hearing who walked away from that duel still standing."

"What?" The younger guard turned sharply toward his superior. "You mean…?"

The senior guard gave a slow nod, his expression grim. "Garen Crownguard was defeated, easily, and without even a hint of effort." He shook his head, still sounding faintly disbelieving. "There's a reason we were told not to interfere with him. We're not here to protect the foreign mage. At best, we're just here to make things look official. At worst…" His eyes drifted down to the courtyard. "We're the first shields thrown into the grinder if things ever go south."

The younger guard exhaled sharply. "By the Winged Protector…" he murmured, his gaze shifting to the other figure in the courtyard, a young boy lying a few paces away from the foreign mage, struggling through sit-ups at a snail's pace compared to the man beside him. "What about the other one?" he asked, pointing toward him.

"Ah. Darryl," the senior guard said, a faint, pitying smile tugging at his lips. "Good lad, that one. Shame about his affliction. At least he's not in the MageSeekers' dungeons. Light only knows what horrors go on down there."

The younger guard frowned, confusion creasing his brow. "What are you talking about, sir? The MageSeekers are keeping us safe. They're the ones catching all those rebels working with the King Killer."

The senior guard's gaze hardened, and for a moment, he looked far older than his years. "You're young," he said quietly. "Still seeing the world through a polished lens. But you'd best clean that lens soon, boy, before it blinds you. Otherwise…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "You'll end up doing something you'll regret for the rest of your life."

The younger guard stared at him, uncertain. "Sir?"

The senior guard started walking, his boots echoing lightly against the stone wall as he resumed his patrol. "No matter what flows through our veins," he said over his shoulder, voice low but firm, "we're all Demacian. Remember that."

The younger guard watched him go, the words hanging in the air long after the older man disappeared down the ramparts. Slowly, his gaze returned to the courtyard, to the foreign mage and the boy, both still at it, one tireless, the other barely keeping up.

His jaw tightened. "Mages are no Demacians," he muttered under his breath, gripping the hilt of his sword as the morning sun glinted off his armor.

---

Darryl lay flat on the stone courtyard, arms spread, lungs burning. Sweat pooled beneath him, soaking through his thin training shirt. Every muscle in his body screamed, yet Asta stood above him, barely sweating, his grin as bright and infuriating as ever.

"Come on, Darryl! You've only done seventy!" Asta barked, hands on his hips. "You've still got thirty more to go!"

"My stomach." Darryl wheezed, rolling onto his side. His arms trembled like twigs in the wind. "Is it still intact? It feels like there's a hole in there and my food's about to fall off…"

Asta laughed, a loud, cheerful sound that somehow made Darryl both encouraged and miserable. "Hahaha! You're nowhere near your limits yet Darryl. Don't think I haven't noticed that it's getting easier for you. You reached fifty a few minutes earlier than yesterday." He crouched beside Darryl, eyes gleaming. "We'll be starting next week with two hundred reps of everything!"

Darryl groaned, dragging himself up with shaking arms. The courtyard stones were warm beneath his palms, the Demacian sun unrelenting. His breath came in short gasps, and yet, somewhere inside, he didn't want to stop.

He glanced at Asta, who stood watching him with folded arms, sunlight reflecting off his silver badge, the emblem of an Emissary.

"I can't believe… you just did twenty thousand sit-ups. I can't even count that high. Will I really have to do this every day?" Darryl muttered between gasps.

"Every day and then some!" Asta said, clapping once. "Now, thirty more sit-ups, then we'll move to running laps around the courtyard. You'll thank me later."

"You're evil Captain…" Darryl grunted but began again. His body protested, yet a strange warmth spread through his chest, something that wasn't exhaustion.

Determination.

Asta's shadow stretched beside him, solid and steady.

From the balcony above, unseen by Darryl, soldiers whispered among themselves. But down here, on the hot stone courtyard, there was only the sound of Darryl's ragged breathing, Asta's steady encouragement, and the slow but certain rhythm of progress.

---

Within a lavishly furnished office, the air was thick with incense and quiet tension. Two women knelt on the polished marble floor before a violet-haired woman. A golden mask obscured half of her elegant face, leaving only one sharp, calculating eye visible.

She was Wisteria, a high-ranking officer of the MageSeekers, and personal student of Eldred himself.

"Well?" Wisteria's voice was calm but carried the kind of weight that made the two women kneeling before her instinctively bow lower. She stood, turning slightly toward the tall window behind her, taking in the gleaming white spires of the city. Like every true Demacian, she admired its beauty… even if her duties often forced her into its shadows.

Behind her, the first kneeling woman lifted her head hesitantly. Her short, dark hair brushed her jawline as she spoke. "The past few days, we've done as instructed, adding ground petricite into his drinks. He's consumed every one without fail…"

She paused, her expression uncertain. "...Including the boy's portions."

Wisteria's gaze shifted sharply, her visible eye narrowing. "Pardon? What do you mean by the boy's portions?"

The dark-haired woman swallowed hard. "It's as I said, my Lady. Each time the drinks were served, he would take both his and the boy's cups. There's a chance he realized something was wrong with them, and that he's been shielding the boy."

A soft sigh escaped Wisteria's lips. "That much is obvious. What I want to know is how he detected the petricite, and what became of him after consuming so much."

This time, the second kneeling woman, a younger one with soft brown hair tied in a loose braid, answered nervously. "He's shown no reaction at all, my Lady. For four days, he's ingested concentrated petricite and remains unaffected. He continues his strange regimen, training from dawn till dusk, pushing both himself and the boy far beyond ordinary limits."

For a long moment, silence hung in the air. Then Wisteria turned back toward them fully, the faintest trace of a frown curling beneath her golden mask.

"Interesting," Wisteria murmured, her voice low and thoughtful as she tapped a gloved finger against the edge of the window. The faint chime of her golden ring echoed in the quiet office.

"The petricite seems ineffective on him," she continued, her gaze lingering on the distant towers of Demacia. "That alone lends some truth to his claim, of not possessing magic, despite his title as a Magic Knight Captain." she spat the last word with vitriol.

She turned back to the two kneeling women, her single exposed eye gleaming with restrained curiosity. "Continue your observation. If petricite cannot weaken him, then we must learn what can."

The two women bowed their heads low, murmuring their assent before hurriedly retreating from the office. The sound of the door closing echoed like a faint whisper through the chamber, leaving Wisteria alone with her thoughts.

For a moment, she said nothing. The room was silent save for the soft rustle of her robes as she turned back toward the window. Below, the capital spread in perfect order, gleaming marble, patrolling guards, banners of blue and gold swaying gently in the wind.

To most, it was the picture of peace.

Wisteria's gloved fingers trailed absently along the glass, her reflection merging with the horizon. "A Mage who cannot be affected by petricite…" she murmured, a note of amusement threading through her voice. "How quaint."

She turned from the window, her expression hidden behind the half-mask, though her tone betrayed her intrigue. "Perhaps he truly isn't a mage… or perhaps," her voice darkened, "he's something else entirely."

Her gaze shifted toward the far end of the room where a table stood, covered with neatly stacked reports, sealed scrolls, and a faintly glowing shard of raw petricite. Wisteria crossed the room with measured grace, lifting the shard between two fingers. Its pale light bathed her mask in a cold sheen.

"Eldred will want to hear of this," she said softly, though there was no urgency in her tone. "Having to deal with this now, in addition to Sylas. Rayn better not disappoint."

---

Darryl's legs felt like lead, his breath rasping in short bursts as he pushed himself through yet another lap. The cobblestone ground seemed endless, the walls around him blurring from exhaustion. Every time he thought he'd collapse, a familiar, annoyingly cheerful voice would cut through the haze.

"Faster, Darryl! You've got one more lap to go!"

Asta's voice carried over the courtyard like a drumbeat, unrelenting and bright. He jogged alongside the boy effortlessly, barely winded, his grin never fading.

"You said that two laps ago!" Darryl yelled before coughing. "I-I can't…" Darryl wheezed, clutching his side. "I think… my lungs are on fire…"

Asta glanced down at him with that same maddeningly carefree expression. "Then you're doing it right! Pain means you're getting stronger!"

"Pain means I'm dying," Darryl muttered, his words lost under Asta's laughter.

When they finally reached the end of the lap, Darryl collapsed face-first onto the ground, limbs splayed. He lay there for a long moment, staring up at the pale blue sky, sweat dripping from his chin onto the stone beneath him.

Asta crouched beside him, wiping a bit of sweat from his own brow, more out of habit than necessity. "Not bad, Darryl. You lasted three laps longer than yesterday."

"Yesterday I nearly passed out in the fourth lap…" Darryl groaned.

"Exactly! That's called progress!" Asta said, beaming.

Darryl gave him a sideways glance, torn between admiration and disbelief. There was something about Asta, something more than the impossible stamina or the inhuman energy. It wasn't just that he was strong. It was that he believed, with absolute certainty, that anyone could be.

Even him.

"Hey, Captain…" Darryl began after a long pause, his tone quieter now. "Do you really think someone like me can change things here? In Demacia, I mean."

Asta tilted his head. "Change things?"

"Yeah. People like me… like us." Darryl's voice faltered. "Mages."

For the first time, Asta didn't immediately answer. His expression softened, and for a fleeting moment, there was a faint seriousness behind his eyes.

"…I don't know how things work here," he admitted finally. "But I do know this, if you keep moving forward, if you never stop improving yourself, then no one gets to decide what you can or can't be."

He stood and extended a hand toward Darryl. "So yeah. You can change things. But it starts with one more lap."

Darryl stared at the hand for a long moment before sighing and taking it. "Urgh."

Asta grinned. "Your groan better mean "Not yet! I'm not done yet! Young man."

Happy Sunday

Click to shrink...

 

[SaberGlory]

[Confidential Memorandum]

Filed by: Captain Aldren Valecourt, Demacian Diplomatic Corps
Subject: The So-called Emissary of the Clover Kingdom
Classification: Level IV - Internal Circulation Only

"In accordance with Royal Edict 29-B concerning the treatment of foreign representatives, the individual identifying himself as Asta shall, until further notice, be treated under the rights of an Emissary. His arrival on Demacian soil, though uninvited and unverified, is to be considered accidental rather than hostile."

•••Extract from the Royal Chancellor's order, dated 4th of the Brightmoon.


Summary

The foreigner Asta, claiming diplomatic status from an unnamed nation beyond the eastern seas, appeared within Wrenwall Province without prior sanction. Despite his lack of magical emanations typical of a spellcaster, his physical strength and combat ability are beyond recorded Demacian measure. His conduct has thus far remained orderly, though unconventional.

Accommodations and Stipend

A manor has been requisitioned from the vacant Hales estate on the city's southern edge.

A symbolic allowance equal to that of a junior attaché has been approved to avoid claims of neglect or mistreatment.

The subject covers all additional expenses personally; method of income remains unverified. (Unofficial reports suggest mercenary work and the training of one "Darryl," a local afflicted with minor magical traces.)


Political Context

While the Crown recognizes no official envoy from any "Clover Kingdom," the risk of diplomatic incident, combined with the subject's formidable capabilities, necessitates restraint.
MageSeeker involvement has been explicitly forbidden without authorization from the High Council.

Behavioral Notes

Asta maintains rigorous physical routines bordering on the absurd. Witnesses describe hours of exercise and weapon drills performed without fatigue. His demeanor is polite but guarded; he declines invitations from noble houses and expresses little interest in Demacian politics.

Recommendation

Continue surveillance under the pretext of security.
Avoid confrontation.
Observe his relationship with local mages, particularly the boy Darryl, for signs of ideological influence.

---

Tianna Crownguard studied the young man seated across from her, her hands folded neatly on the polished oak table of the council chamber. The faint light filtering through the stained-glass windows painted her silver armor in muted hues of gold and blue, a regal contrast to the man before her.

Asta sat with a relaxed posture, one leg crossed over the other, his ashen hair slightly disheveled and his ever-present grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was a smile that seemed designed to draw a sigh from even the most composed of nobles.

The chamber was empty save for the two of them, no advisors, no attendants. Just the High Marshal of Demacia and the foreign "Emissary" who had been causing ripples ever since his arrival.

Tianna broke the silence first, her tone calm but direct. "You requested a private audience," she said, eyes steady on him. "To what end, might I ask?"

Asta gave a light shrug, his grin never faltering. "I figured it best to come to you first. After all, you're the High Marshal, right? That makes you the highest authority over Demacia's military and security affairs."

Tianna's expression remained unreadable as her gaze swept over him, searching for motive behind his easy words. "Yes," she replied evenly. "That is correct. I oversee all of Demacia's military operations and defenses."

"Perfect," Asta said, leaning back in his chair as if confirming something to himself. "Then that makes you the equivalent of a Wizard King, second only to the throne."

One of Tianna's brows arched slightly, though her composure didn't waver. "I suppose, in a sense, yes," she conceded. "But I fail to see where this comparison is leading."

"Good," Asta said simply, then let out a deep sigh, the confidence in his demeanor giving way to something far more human. "Honestly, this has been… pretty rough on me. Can't believe I messed up so badly I ended up stranded here of all places."

Tianna blinked as the foreigner suddenly dropped his head onto the table with a dull thunk, his sigh muffled against the polished wood. The display of raw frustration caught her off guard, it was disarming, even endearing in its sincerity.

"A year away from my promotion to Wizard King too," Asta muttered into the table before lifting his head again with a rueful grin. "It really sucks, you know?"

For a fleeting moment, Tianna found herself at a loss for words. She had expected arrogance or demand, not… this informality.

Still, she composed herself, regarding him with a faint, thoughtful smile. "You're remarkably casual for someone requesting the High Marshal's time," she said, her tone carrying the faintest edge of amusement.

Asta only chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Bah! I've never been good with formality. No matter what name I bear now, or my position, I still remember where I come from."

Tianna allowed herself a quiet sigh, though the faint amusement remained in her eyes. "Then let us skip the formalities, Asta," she said, her voice carrying its usual calm authority. "Why did you ask to see me?"

Asta's grin returned, though this time it was more measured. "Right. Straight to it then." He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "I came to ask if there's any work I can take on while I'm here."

Tianna's brows knit faintly. "Work?"

"Yeah." Asta nodded earnestly. "I appreciate the place to stay and the food, really, but it doesn't feel right living off Demacia's coin when I'm not doing anything to earn it. I'd rather pay my own way."

The simplicity of his statement made Tianna pause. He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, like the idea of accepting royal hospitality without contribution was shameful to him. Most foreign envoys would have taken advantage of such generosity without hesitation.

Her tone softened slightly. "You are aware that, as an emissary, you're not expected to work," she said. "Your expenses are covered for the duration of your stay. It's standard protocol."

"I know," Asta said quickly, "but between you and me. Wizard King to High Marshal, that's not who I am. Back home, i earned everything we have through effort, hard work, determination, and a little stubbornness." He gave a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "Besides, if I sit around doing nothing, I'll go insane."

Tianna tilted her head, watching him carefully. "And what kind of work did you have in mind?"

"Anything that lets me help people," Asta replied without hesitation. "I might not have magic the way you understand it here, but I can still fight, build, train, and protect. I just need to do something useful."

He continued, leaning forward slightly. "That's why I came to you. You're the one who oversees all the knights, soldiers, and military operations. So if anyone knows of a way I could be useful, and earn my keep, it'd be you. Others might not be as receptive, considering Demacia's outlook on mages."

Tianna exhaled slowly, then stood, her silver cloak flowing behind her as she stepped toward the large map table at the center of the room. "There are few in Demacia who would offer a mage, or anyone like one, a place to serve," she said. "But… you may be an exception."

Asta tilted his head. "Is that a yes?"

"It's a consideration," Tianna corrected, though there was a faint warmth in her tone now. "You've claimed to be powerful enough to become the Wizard King of the Clover nation. Garen Crownguard and the others have also vouched for your strength. However..."

She looked at him carefully, hoping he would understand where she was going with this. From the glint in his eyes, she knew he did.

"Makes sense," Asta said, leaning back with an easy grin. "You want to know the danger of the foreign mage trying to set up shop in your country." His laugh was light, but it carried a truth Tianna didn't deny.

Tianna smiled, a small, practiced smile that never quite reached her eyes. "Not that I'm calling you a danger…"

"Please," Asta interrupted, raising a hand. "I thought we were past the formalities."

Tianna exhaled through her nose, suppressing a chuckle. "And I thought your promotion to Wizard King wasn't for another year."

Asta laughed harder at that, the sound echoing lightly off the chamber walls. "You're right, though. You have no idea how dangerous I am, and it's good that you want to find out. It's a Wizard King's job to ensure the safety of his kingdom. Or, in your case, the High Marshal's."

Tianna's composure softened, the faintest trace of amusement breaking through her usual reserve. "Very well," she said at last, resting her gauntleted hands on the table. "I suppose you wouldn't be opposed to a demonstration, then, something to prove that the Wizard King title isn't just words."

Asta's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with quiet excitement. "Now that," he said, standing from his seat, "i can do."

---

The Demacian Military Training Grounds were vast, a fortress within the capital itself. Marble archways framed the open arena, and banners of blue and gold snapped proudly in the highland wind. Rows upon rows of armored knights trained in perfect rhythm, their movements sharp and unified like clockwork.

When Tianna stepped onto the field, silence fell almost instantly. Every soldier straightened at the sight of the High Marshal, but curiosity rippled through the ranks when they noticed the man beside her, the foreigner with no armor, strange insignia, and an easy grin.

"Marshal Crownguard." A commander approached, saluting sharply. "We were not informed of a demonstration today."

"You are now," Tianna replied evenly. "Summon Captain Garen and the Dauntless Vanguard. The foreign Emissary has requested a… practical evaluation."

A low murmur swept through the grounds. Some soldiers exchanged skeptical glances; others whispered in disbelief. An Emissary challenging Demacia's most elite unit?

Asta only stood at the center of the arena, hands on his hips, taking in the sheer size of the place. "Man, this is way bigger than the Magic Knight's field back home," he said with an impressed whistle. "You people don't play around."

Tianna shot him a faint look.

---

The Dauntless Vanguard arrived in formation, one hundred and twenty eight of Demacia's finest, clad in polished steel and bearing the blue lion insignia. At their head stood Garen Crownguard, his greatsword resting across his back. His presence alone commanded the respect of everyone on the field.

He glanced between Tianna and Asta, his expression a mix of curiosity and restrained amusement. " Ihave answered your request High Marshal. I brought with me the first Company. You're serious about this?" he asked his aunt.

Tianna nodded once. "I am. I wish to know if his reputation has any substance."

Garen turned to Asta. "Asta. It appears that we'll have our second duel. Be warned though. The Dauntless Vanguard do not hold back, even in training."

Asta grinned, stepping forward onto the packed earth of the sparring circle. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

A few of the knights chuckled quietly, the sound low and confident. A foreigner without armor, bare-handed, facing the Vanguard? It was madness.

Tianna raised a hand. "This is a sanctioned trial. No killing blows. The objective is simple, demonstrate capability without lethal intent. Begin when ready."

---

Prince Jarvan IV strode through the marble corridors of the royal compound, his golden armor glinting in the morning light. The rhythmic clank of his boots echoed against the stone, accompanied closely by the measured steps of Shyvana, who followed a pace behind.

"Prince Jarvan," she called out, her deep voice carrying a note of curiosity. "Where exactly are we going?"

Without slowing, Jarvan glanced back at her with a faint, knowing smile. "It seems the foreign mage has decided to give us a demonstration of his strength," he said, his tone casual but laced with intrigue.

Shyvana raised an eyebrow, her violet eyes narrowing slightly. "A demonstration? Why would he do that?"

Jarvan gave a light shrug, his crimson cloak swaying behind him. "Who knows? But this is an opportunity we can't ignore. If he's offering to show his power, we'd be fools not to observe. Besides…" He cast a sidelong glance at her. "After what you told me about his power, I want to see this for myself."

Shyvana's expression hardened. "I don't understand what's going on," she admitted. "And I won't claim to be the brightest mind in the keep, but a mage showing his hand so openly..." She paused mid-step, her gaze turning distant as the thought took shape. "Either Asta is incredibly naïve…"

Jarvan stopped and turned to face her. "Or what, Shyvana?" he asked, studying her expression. "What did you realize?"

Shyvana's eyes narrowed slightly. "Or it doesn't matter if we know," she said softly. "He believes he's strong enough that it won't make a difference." A faint shiver ran through her, the kind that came not from fear, but from instinct.

Jarvan's lips curved into a small, confident smile. "Overconfidence is a man's greatest enemy, Shyvana. It's what brought down countless warriors greater than him." He stepped closer, resting a gauntleted hand on her shoulder. "Even your mother, Yvva, the mightiest of dragons, fell when she underestimated us. Trust in us, Shyvana. Trust in Demacia."

Her gaze flicked to his hand, then up to his face. "A Demacia that barely accepts me," she murmured, her tone low and bitter.

Jarvan sighed, his grip tightening slightly, not in reprimand but in reassurance. "We've been over this. As long as you remain by my side, no one will harm you. They'd have to go through me first. You're nothing like those rebels, Shyvana."

For a moment, silence lingered between them. Then Shyvana nodded, though her eyes held a distant sadness. 'You really don't get it, do you, Jarvan?' she thought quietly. 'You'll never understand what it's like to be hated for what you are.'

Before she could dwell on the thought, Jarvan gestured ahead, his confident stride resuming. "Come," he said. "Looks like we're here."

As they stepped out into the training grounds, the sound of clashing steel filled the air.

Clang!

The sharp ring of metal on metal echoed off the stone walls, marking the rhythm of combat. The two of them stopped at the edge of the courtyard, eyes drawn to the source of the noise.

The training grounds were a battlefield of groans and clattering steel. Dozens of armored soldiers from the First Company of the Dauntless Vanguard lay strewn across the stone floor, some clutching broken weapons, others too dazed to even rise. Dust hung in the air, thick with the scent of sweat and crushed earth.

At the center of it all, the cause of the devastation moved like a storm.

Asta was a blur, too fast for the untrained eye to follow, too fierce for the human mind to process. One moment he was gone, the next, he appeared above a soldier, planting his boot squarely on the man's chestplate. The impact sent a thunderous crack echoing through the courtyard as both soldier and attacker crashed into a cluster of comrades. Eight more were launched through the air, their armor clanging against stone before they crumpled into motionless heaps.

But Asta was already gone again, moving faster than the dust could settle. He reappeared on the far side of the courtyard, intercepting a soldier's downward sword strike with his bare hand. The steel met his palm with a screech, but stopped dead, as though striking an iron wall.

The soldier's eyes widened in terror.

Asta grinned. "Nice swing."

Then he brought his massive greatsword around in a single, sweeping arc. The air cracked under the weight of it as the soldier was flung backward, crashing into a cluster of her comrades with enough force to carve a shallow crater into the dirt.

When the dust finally began to clear, only a handful remained.

Of the one hundred and twenty-eight elite members of the Dauntless Vanguard who had accepted Asta's challenge, just seventeen were still standing, Garen Crownguard among them, his armor scratched but his resolve unbroken.

He adjusted his stance, tightening his grip on his broadsword as he watched the ashen-haired stranger rest his weapon across his shoulder, smiling as though he hadn't even broken a sweat.

Garen's expression hardened. "Vanguard, form ten! Shields up!"

At his command, the remaining vanguard stepped forward, surrounding Asta in a tightening circle.

Asta stood at the center, his smile fading into quiet focus. "Now this feels like home."

He moved.

To the soldiers watching, it was like watching a storm. His body blurred between armored forms, his strikes swift, heavy, and devastatingly strong. Shields deformed with every punch. Boots slid when the vanguard tried to resist before they were flung into the walls. Helmets rang like bells.

By the end of it, fifteen of the Vanguard were either on their knees or flat on the ground. Only Garen and a two others remained standing.

Asta stopped, exhaling lightly as if he'd merely gone for a jog.

The courtyard was still again, all eyes fixed on the grinning foreigner standing amidst Demacia's best.

Tianna's expression was unreadable, but there was a faint glint of satisfaction in her eyes. "Well," she said, her tone calm but carrying. "I believe that will suffice."

"That's... Impossible," Jarvan breathed, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and disbelief. Below, the courtyard lay in ruin, shattered practice dummies, splintered spears, and dozens of armored soldiers groaning on the ground. At the center of it all stood Asta, calm and composed, his chest barely rising despite the chaos surrounding him.

"He defeated an entire company by himself," Jarvan continued, his tone hushed but filled with astonishment. "And he doesn't even look winded. It must be some kind of reinforcement magic, something that boosts his strength and speed. He's as strong as a minotaur and as fast as a silverwing."

"No!"

The word tore from Shyvana's throat before she even realized she'd shouted. Her voice cracked through the air like a whip, silencing the murmurs of soldiers and the clang of falling weapons. Every head turned toward her, guards, knights, and even Asta himself.

Jarvan blinked, startled, glancing back at her. "Shyvana..?"

Before he could speak further, a new voice cut through the silence.

"Prince Jarvan."

Tianna Crownguard stepped forward from the shade of the terrace, her golden armor gleaming under the sun. Her expression was poised but curious as her eyes moved from the prince to the dragon-blooded woman beside him. "I assume you came for the demonstration."

Jarvan straightened, forcing a diplomatic smile even as he tried to recover from the awkward tension hanging in the air. "Indeed, High Marshal," he said smoothly. "And I can't say I was disappointed." He turned toward Asta, still trying to piece together what Shyvana had meant. "Asta, that was..."

"He didn't show you anything!" Shyvana's voice rang out again, more controlled this time but no less intense. She took a step forward, her crimson eyes locked on Tianna, then Asta. "He didn't use any magic even once. All of this..." she gestured to the battered soldiers strewn across the training field, "...is just his natural strength. As insane as that sounds."

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then the whispers began.

"…No magic?"

"Impossible…"

"Then how did he..?"

Murmurs rippled through the gathered soldiers, disbelief mixing with awe. Even the knights of the Dauntless Vanguard exchanged uneasy glances, their rigid discipline faltering under the weight of what they had just witnessed.

Asta, standing at the center of the courtyard, merely scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "Heh. Guess I'm still warming up."

"Warming up?" Jarvan's voice broke the tense silence, equal parts disbelief and awe. He even let out a small, incredulous gasp as he surveyed the field of battered soldiers.

Asta raised one hand in mock surrender, his expression sheepish. "In my defense, I was hoping you'd have someone stronger I could go all out against. I thought these guys were just the warm-up. Are they not?"

"Clearly not," Jarvan muttered, his gaze following the groaning soldiers of the Dauntless Vanguard as they tried to pick themselves up. One unfortunate soul had to be pried out of the wall he'd left an imprint in. The fact that he was still breathing, if only barely, said a lot about how much Asta had been holding back.

Asta scratched the back of his head. "Well, do you have someone stronger?"

Tianna Crownguard, ever composed, found herself momentarily at a loss for words. Her mind ran through every name in Demacia's ranks, but none came close. There wasn't a single human alive, who wasn't a mage, capable of duplicating what Asta had just done.

Before she could answer, a deep, steady voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd.

"You still owe me a rematch from last time."

Shyvana stepped forward, her crimson eyes gleaming faintly.

Asta blinked, then his face lit up with recognition. "Oh, right... you! Sorry about that. I should've gone easier on you back then."

A low growl rumbled from Shyvana's throat. "On the contrary. This time, I won't hold back. So I expect you to do the same. If you don't take this seriously…" her lips curled into a toothy smirk, "...you'll die."

Her words carried weight, not as a threat, but as a promise.

'Maybe this way,' Shyvana thought, 'the prince and the others will finally understand what we're dealing with… and maybe I can stop feeling this dread every time I see him.'

Asta's grin widened. "Alright then. You've got guts, I'll give you that. You'd fit right in with the Black Bulls."

Tianna exhaled softly, signaling the others to clear the area. "Everyone, back away!" she commanded, and the soldiers obeyed immediately.

They were barely at a safe distance when the air around Shyvana ignited. A wave of heat rolled across the training grounds as her form burst into roaring, red-hot flames. Massive wings of molten fire spread from her back, their shadows stretching across the courtyard like the arms of a god.

Asta's eyes gleamed with excitement. He shifted his stance, both hands tightening around the hilt of his sword.

Then, something changed.

Tianna felt it before she saw it, a sudden, unnatural pressure in the air. The rusty blade in Asta's grip darkened, its surface turning sleek and black, like liquid night. Wisps of black mist curled from its edge, swallowing the light around it.

It no longer looked like the dull, worn greatsword he'd carried, it looked hungry.

Then, with a sound like tearing fabric, a single black wing burst from Asta's right shoulder, unfurling in jagged, lightning streaked arcs.

Asta's grin deepened.

In the next instant, a dragon roared, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

 

[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.

 

[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.

 

[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.

 

[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?"

 

[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.

 

[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."

 

[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.

 

[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.

 

[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…"