With the decision made, the incarnation ceremony began at once.
There was no celebration. No prayer. No hesitation.
Only preparation—cold, efficient, and absolute.
This time, the incarnation would be performed by Zalario and five of his subordinates.
Also present were Obera and her single confidant, Oma.
The undead elves—newborn vessels made from death—were lined up like tools on a table, their bodies still and wrong, as if the world itself rejected them.
A phantom attendant managed the final seals.
The hall dimmed. The air thickened.
Feldway watched everything from the front—standing where Michael's shadow should have been, the empty space behind him screaming the truth that none of them wanted to say aloud:
Atem of Eterna eliminated Michael.
That loss had changed the shape of the war.
It had changed how fast Feldway had to move.
And it had changed how ruthless he was willing to be.
There were nine undead elves.
Zalario and his five would take six.
Obera and Oma would take two.
That left one vessel unassigned.
It wasn't a mistake.
It was deliberate.
Feldway's gaze drifted across the room and landed on the remaining captive—a woman brought here because she had one rare usefulness: she could force an ego to awaken inside an undead elf.
She felt her throat tighten under that stare.
It wasn't hatred.
It was worse.
It was the look someone gives a tool right before deciding whether to keep it… or break it.
Feldway spoke, voice even.
"You're the one who can imprint an ego, correct?"
She nodded once, carefully.
Feldway's eyes didn't soften.
"You're not needed after this."
She swallowed.
The words sounded like freedom.
But in a room like this, freedom was never given for free.
"…Will you let me go?" she asked, measuring every syllable like it could trigger execution.
Feldway answered immediately.
"After the ritual is over, I don't mind."
Her mind stalled.
At best she expected chains.
At worst, punishment.
But Feldway's tone held no trick—only certainty.
And the difference in power was so wide she couldn't imagine why he would bother lying. Someone like him didn't negotiate with ants.
That made his offer terrifyingly believable.
She gathered herself and tried for more—because survival alone wasn't enough. Not anymore.
"…If I asked for someone else to be released too—"
Feldway's gaze sharpened a fraction.
"No."
One word.
A door slammed.
Then he added, as if explaining the weather:
"Your usefulness ends when the vessels are stabilized. The rest will be handled by force."
She felt the chill creep up her spine.
Force meant war.
Not skirmishes.
Not raids.
Feldway spoke again, and this time there was something in it—an ugly, calm contempt.
"The Cardinal World will be rough. I hate the people of Earth."
He said it plainly, like it was a fact that required no justification.
"I don't need every living thing to die to reach my goal. But it will be engulfed in flames when we clash with those who stand in our way."
His eyes didn't blink.
"And that will be punishment."
A pause.
"Those whom Veldanava-sama loved betrayed that love. Sanctions will be necessary."
The woman felt it then: not fear of Feldway alone, but fear of what was coming.
If beings like this went to war—if the likes of Feldway, Zalario, Obera, and Zelanus moved freely—
There would be no safe place on Earth.
And there was another truth, heavier than the rest:
If Feldway's side failed… the one who would crush them wouldn't be a naive ruler.
It would be Atem of Eterna—a king who didn't beg fate to change.
He commanded it.
Her thoughts turned sharp.
If everything is going to burn, surviving as I am won't matter.
To survive, I need power.
It was a desperate conclusion, but also the only one that felt real.
So she spoke her wish—knowing it was outrageous, knowing it could get her killed.
"Give me the extra undead elf."
Silence.
No one interrupted.
No one laughed.
Even the insectar didn't react—because they didn't care about the weak.
But Feldway did not dismiss her.
He stared as if weighing whether her ambition was useful… or irritating.
She forced the rest out, because once she started, stopping meant dying anyway.
"And… allow me to carry a seraphim in that body."
She wasn't asking to live.
She was asking to become something that could not be easily erased.
Something that could stand in a world where Atem existed.
The room remained still.
Then Feldway spoke.
"I will not tolerate betrayal."
His voice cut deeper than a blade because it carried a promise.
"If you accept my Ultimate Enchantment, I will grant your wish."
Her lungs tightened.
Ultimate Enchantment.
A leash disguised as a gift.
But she understood the trade.
Without a leash, she would never be trusted with power.
And without power, she would never survive what was coming.
"I swear I will not betray you," she said. "I will accept your dominion."
The deal was made.
And in that moment, she felt it—something invisible clasping around the core of her will.
Not pain.
Not pleasure.
Ownership.
To make an undead elf develop an ego was to awaken what was buried in the vessel—sometimes the original personality dominated, sometimes the vessel's will shattered and mixed into something new.
Even the one performing the imprint could not perfectly control the result.
It was a gamble every time.
But Feldway didn't care about fairness.
He cared about outcomes.
One by one, the eight chosen vessels were awakened.
The woman completed each imprint, hands steady even as her nerves screamed.
When the eighth was done, the hall felt heavier.
Like the air itself understood what had just been born.
Then Feldway's gaze shifted.
"To the last."
The extra undead elf was brought forward.
Her body—her original fragile shell—felt suddenly pathetic, like paper next to armor.
She performed the final awakening ritual on her own undead elf.
And when the vessel's eyes fluttered, she made her move.
She abandoned the homunculus body.
Transferred into the undead elf.
Her awareness snapped into a new frame—stronger, colder, and violently alive.
Flesh like reinforced stone.
Magicules running like rivers.
A heart that didn't beat like a human's.
The ritual ended.
And as expected…
The results were brutal.
Obera awoke first.
Her noble will rose like a banner, untouched, unshaken.
Not even death could stain her pride.
She stood in her new flesh as if she had been born for it.
Next, Dhalis began to awaken.
He realized instantly what had happened:
He was wrapped in armor of flesh—a body built for the Cardinal World.
And inside him… there was another presence.
A second will.
A man of ambition.
A warrior's hunger.
That name echoed inside him like a brand:
Torneot.
Dhalis felt it—skills and instincts layering over his own like a second spine.
His presence expanded. His confidence hardened.
He wasn't merely restored.
He was augmented.
Then Nice awoke.
Her ego was intact—clean and strong.
She didn't stumble. She didn't gasp.
She simply opened her eyes and accepted her new power as if it had always been hers.
Then Grandma awoke.
Her will was indomitable, unchanged.
She embraced a being with similar sensibilities, and the fusion held without fracture.
Then Oma's result manifested.
A devouring conclusion.
Zero, now consumed, did not remain separate.
He became Oma's flesh and blood.
Not a partner.
Not a coexistence.
A complete incorporation—like prey becoming marrow.
Then Orca-Aria awoke.
A perfect contradiction reborn:
Aria's knowledge as a wizard
Orca's strength as a warrior
Two egos coexisting inside one body, balanced like a blade and its handle.
A magical warrior.
Not a trace of their former selves remained.
Then Arios awakened.
His Unique Skill—'Murderer'—remained intact.
His grudge burned clean and focused.
He remembered being killed by Damrada.
He didn't awaken to live.
He awakened to become strong enough that death could never take him again.
Then Mai Furuki awoke.
Her will refused to die.
Not because she loved this world—
But because she had left her sickly brother behind in the world beyond.
She vowed to return.
That vow became fuel.
That fuel became power.
Eight had risen.
Eight wills now stood in flesh meant for war.
Only one remained.
The last undead elf did not move.
It did not open its eyes.
It did not breathe.
It lay there in deep sleep, as if something inside it was still deciding whether to be born… or to remain dead.
Feldway stared at it.
Zalario's expression didn't change.
Obera didn't speak.
Zelanus watched with indifferent curiosity.
And far away, across worlds and fate-lines, one name pressed against every plan like a weight:
Atem of Eterna.
The King of Games.
The ruler who already proved something terrifying:
Even beings who believed themselves untouchable—like Michael—could be erased when Atem chose to move.
So Feldway's ceremony did not end with relief.
It ended with urgency.
Because if the ninth vessel woke—
they would gain another piece.
But if it woke wrong—
it could become a crack in their entire foundation.
And in a war against a king like Atem…
One crack was enough.