Under the shimmer of the blue aurora, within the boundless sea of white blossoms that blanketed the Millennium Castle, smoke rose from the corpses of fallen Dead Apostles and True Ancestors. Their entrails lay exposed, blood staining the flowers, casting long, slender shadows across the ground.
Everywhere the eye wandered, there was only slaughter—slaughter born of the exiled kin of mankind, the vampiric kind.
The ancient city, radiant like the moon itself, bled with a crimson light that seemed eternal, unending.
"Van-Fem really has landed me in a troublesome mess this time."
Before the final gate, the silence was chilling, oppressive.
Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg—the Magician Marshal, master of the Second Magic—stood with a shadow over his face.
Since the grievous wound that forced him to abandon use of the Second, he had nevertheless continued to look forward to the future. To call it optimism would be wrong—it was more a faith in the planet's choices. After all, it was his research into parallel worlds through the Second that first awakened the planet's yearning to "survive" after the Age of Gods had ended.
Compared to Van-Fem's reckless schemes, this mess was an even greater burden than his other friend, Measala Earths'kadez, and his experiments with the new breed of humanity. At least Measala's "success" belonged to a distant future, not the present... But if they failed to deal with that one from the Church, there might be no future left at all.
"Eltrouce... even if you do become the 'One' that Crimson Moon desired—the Planet's Primal Origin—you still cannot hope to stand against the Church's champion."
The sturdy old man spoke with the weary tenderness of a grandfather scolding his granddaughter.
"The Planet will not grant you its aid. More than that—"
The Primal Origin of One, the Planet's Ultimate One, was the strongest singular being possible upon the Earth—a vessel of will, an embodiment of the planet itself. Every action of the One was backed by the planet's infinite energy, granting boundless strength and inexhaustible prana so long as they remained upon its surface.
But Kischur knew the truth. The planet's recognition, its infinite support, had already been granted—to Marble Phantasm's chosen savior, the one nurtured by the Church, the destined protector of the future.
Eltrouce had no such recognition.
"You cannot resist the principle Crimson Moon has etched into you. That ideology will kill you—or worse, drive you into madness and strip away your self."
For though Crimson Moon's body was destroyed, a "backdoor" lingered in every True Ancestor—a fragment of its will, a guiding principle, lying dormant. Only those True Ancestors whose essence matched Crimson Moon's purity would be subsumed. Whether White Princess or Black Princess, either could collapse into another form of Crimson Moon.
Arcueid, as the "finished product," was different: so long as she affirmed herself, never abandoning her sense of self, she could resist assimilation.
But Eltrouce—the unstable failure—was another matter. Kischur could not predict her fate. And long ago, before his wound, in all the possible futures he had glimpsed, not once had he seen this black-haired girl succeed in resolving the Crimson Moon problem. That alone was proof enough.
"... I still wish to be so."
Eltrouce's gaze drifted outward.
The world beyond was drenched in red—moonlight dyed by blood. Dead Apostles, True Ancestors, and the magi summoned by the Magician Marshal himself—beings who should have been united against the Church—were locked instead in a massacre.
"Do you think the same?"
Kischur exhaled deeply, leaning against the pillar by the gate, his eyes shifting to the silver-haired youth who had accompanied the Princess.
"You were invited. You agreed. Then you must see it through."
It had been many years, yet in Kischur's ears, Avia's voice was unchanged—serene as a lake deep within the forest.
"Besides... the final clause of our covenant: Protect your allies."
"Is that so."
In the next instant, a torrent of prana surged from the Magician Marshal, filling the chamber with an oppressive energy.
Condensed ether crystallized into hundreds of searing blasts, each a miniature cannon wrought of compressed magical flow—accelerated and released in rapid succession, one after another. They were a pale shadow of the devastation he had once unleashed against Crimson Moon, yet still deadly beyond reckoning.
Kischur did not wish this. Neither Avia nor Eltrouce did he desire to harm. If only he could drive them back, it would suffice.
"I'll hold Kischur. Find your chance and go in."
The silver-haired youth's calm words cut through the tension. In Eltrouce's eyes, he stood steady, channeling molten streams of prana through his body, his blade and spear flaring as he surged forward.
To Kischur, Avia's charge was inhumanly fast, his aura a torrent of magma-born power, like the blood-rivers of the battlefield itself incarnate.
The Marshal's beams converged, focusing into a storm of annihilation. Normally, raw prana blasts lacked true lethality—but something in these had been transmuted, magnified hundreds or thousands of times. They climbed without limit.
Yet Avia's stance was like a wall of mirrored barriers, each strike negated, each beam shattered in his advance.
Even so, Kischur, heir to King Solomon's wisdom and bearer of the Second Magic, moved with detached composure, accelerating his own consciousness until the world itself slowed.
In truth, time had not stopped—his own movements dulled as well—but even as Avia pressed forward, tearing through the viscous air thick with magic, the Magician Marshal found no solution. He could only stall.
And then—
"Caubac, I'm counting on you. Next time, drinks are on me."
Kischur had prepared for this. Before coming, he had sought out his old comrade, Caubac, the hermit who lingered within his labyrinth. Though weaker in raw might, in matters of binding and entrapment, not even gods could slip free of Caubac's locks.
"Kischur... you didn't mention this was about the Princess herself. What a damned bother—"
Chains manifested in the air, spiraling against the flow of space itself, filling every crevice. Yet in that instant, the Marshal sensed his junior falter, his presence wavering as though stunned.
"This... could it be... is it truly... you—"
Avia met the chains with a faint smile.
"Long time no see, Caubac."