He was the strongest majin in the Masquerade Court.
Not a crowned Demon Lord—yet anyone who understood battle knew the truth:
if titles were decided by blood and survival alone, he would already sit among them.
He had been rebuilt as an undead elf, but he hadn't lost what mattered.
His old instincts—those of a former Chosen Hero—were still alive inside him.
Sharper, colder, and more dangerous now that his heart no longer beat.
And he carried two Unique Skills that made him a nightmare to fight.
A lie made into reality.
Not mind control—worse.
It tampered with perception.
A spear in his hand could look like a knife.
A knife could look like nothing.
A harmless blade could be a bomb in disguise.
Even death could be faked.
If the enemy believed it… then for a moment, it became "true."
That alone was filthy.
But his second Skill was the real reason he stayed undefeated.
A few seconds.
That was all.
But in real combat, a few seconds meant everything.
He could see which lie would land.
Which strike would miss.
Which step would kill him.
It let him fight without being surprised.
It let him choose when to commit… and when to run.
That was why he rarely "lost."
If he couldn't win, he escaped—calmly, cleanly, laughing as if it had all been planned.
Even his own leader admitted it privately:
In raw combat, he was the sharpest blade they had.
But tonight, he was trapped.
No exits. No distance. No space to vanish into.
Because the order came down—cold, direct, final:
"Support the Saint of Light.
And crush anyone in your way."
Two enemies stood before him.
One was his leader—now carrying a staff that pulsed with borrowed ruin.
The other was a young commander with a quiet smile…
a boy who had once broken him in the past.
Back then, the boy had been "human."
Now his blows felt like steel wrapped in thunder.
The Trickster exhaled.
"Fine," he muttered behind his mask. "No hard feelings."
He flicked a knife.
In his Future Vision—every blade missed.
Not "might." Not "maybe."
Every outcome was failure.
He didn't panic.
He simply adjusted.
Knives came in waves—timed to the boy's evasions, aimed at where he would be.
Still nothing.
No opening.
No pressure.
No fear in the boy's eyes.
And worse—
Falsifier didn't work.
Illusions collapsed before they formed, as if the boy's presence denied them.
The Trickster's smile tightened.
This again…
The same feeling as the old fight.
Future Vision was useless if the enemy could keep rewriting the "future" by force.
But he didn't give up.
He never did.
He had made his choice long ago:
I quit when I die.
Until then, I keep moving.
Then it happened.
A strange detail.
When he blocked a punch… when he parried a kick…
He felt faint vibrations through the contact.
Not random.
Patterned.
Measured.
Encrypted.
His eyes widened behind the mask.
He knew that code.
Only a handful of people on this world ever used it.
Only those he trusted.
Only those who had shared a certain kind of darkness.
No…
He took another hit—on purpose.
Another vibration.
Clearer this time.
The message was short. Brutal.
"Catch on, idiot.
When you do—move with me."
The Trickster almost laughed out loud.
So it's real.
The boy… wasn't fully his own master.
But his mind—
His mind had returned.
The Trickster moved instantly.
He lunged as if to stab the boy—
Then twisted, spun, and grabbed his leader instead.
Her eyes widened.
The ruin staff began to glow—
But he was faster.
He slammed a hand into her chest and spoke the words like a curse.
"—Skill Steal."
The air screamed.
Golden light fractured.
His leader dropped to her knees.
She stared at her hands like they weren't hers.
"…My authority—!"
Her voice shook.
"The dominion—It's gone."
For the first time in this entire war, her eyes looked like hers again.
Not empty. Not guided.
Awake.
She understood immediately what had just changed.
And she reacted like a real commander.
Not emotional.
Not loud.
Decisive.
"Withdraw!" she snapped, voice cutting through the chaos.
"All support units—fall back!"
Two of her enforcers—those who had been hunting the wounded knights—froze in place.
They didn't like it.
But they obeyed.
Because now her voice carried weight again.
She was being pushed.
Not because she was weak.
Because her opponent had become too efficient.
Leon's sword flashed.
A "light-speed slash"—not truly light speed, but fast enough that even elite warriors saw only a white line.
And wrapped around that blade were spiritrons—the cruel purity of holy annihilation.
Everything that touched his edge began to break down into nothing.
An incarnation of destruction.
Silvia answered with lightning.
Not wild storms.
Not random thunder.
Her Ultimate Skill—Thunder King Indra—was control.
Perfect aim.
Perfect timing.
She turned her body into lightning itself, moving at divine speed, shifting the mythical-grade vajra into whatever shape she needed.
Blade. Spear. Chain. Whip.
She kept up.
She held him.
But inside, she felt it:
He still isn't going all out.
And that terrified her.
Because Leon's old weakness was gone.
He used to hold back whenever allies were near.
He used to protect the city by instinct.
But now—
With the angelic pressure above him, with Feldway's shadow over the battle—
Leon's restraint was fading.
If Leon stopped caring about collateral damage…
This country would be erased.
Silvia clenched her teeth.
Not while I'm here.
Then the worst thing happened.
A violent burst of holy energy tore across the floor—
And the magic transfer circle behind the throne shattered.
Not cracked.
Not damaged.
Destroyed.
Magisteel fragments scattered like dead stars.
Silvia's stomach sank.
That circle wasn't only an escape route.
It was the route reinforcements would have used.
Now it was gone.
No quick arrivals.
No clean retreat.
No rescue through the old path.
The wounded knights felt it too.
They couldn't see Silvia and Leon clearly anymore—only flashes and shockwaves.
But they understood what losing the circle meant.
They exchanged a look.
No fear.
Just pride.
"If they come for us," one said, voice rough, "we stand."
"A knight doesn't run," the other replied. "Not from this."
Across the hall, the two enforcers turned toward them again—faces eager, hungry for easy kills—
And then, like a blade cutting a rope, the regained commander's voice snapped through the air:
"Fall back!"
The enforcers halted.
Snarled.
But they obeyed.
For a breath of time, the knights lived.
Not because the enemy showed mercy—
But because for a single moment, the board had shifted.
The Trickster's gamble had worked.