Straight demon horns curled from his head, sharp and ominous.
Messy blond hair spiked outward in wild disarray, catching the light like molten strands.
Crimson eyes stared back—bored, distant, and… cooler than he wanted to admit.
His skin was pale, flawless, and inhuman.
All of it—horns, eyes, hair—he could accept.
It was dramatic, sure, but within the bounds of fantasy.
What came next was harder to swallow.
Arthur raised a trembling finger and traced the lightning-shaped scars across both cheeks—angled down like thunderbolts, jagged and glowing faintly.
"…Seriously?" he croaked.
He remembered them now.
He'd modeled them after Laxus from Fairy Tail.
It had looked badass when he was thirteen.
Now?
"Ughh!…" he groaned, the sound sinking into the empty chamber.
He rubbed at the marks furiously.
They didn't budge.
Not even a smudge.
"Absolutely not walking into a city like this," he muttered, staring at his cursed reflection.
Yet… part of him still liked it.
Still thought it was kind of awesome.
He groaned, covering his face.
Shame burned hotter than lava.
And unlike item stats, this… wasn't something he could just unequip.
"I should have Aether, right?"
"Illusion magic should take care of it."
His voice wavered, but the thought steadied him.
A temporary fix, maybe, but good enough for now.
From a tactical standpoint, it was smarter to erase anything that screamed Arthur Magnus.
If this world was anything like the game, the name alone could turn heads—and there couldn't be many demons with thunderbolt scars carved down both eyes.
"Cover the tattoos, blend in, and head to civilisation."
"That's a perfect plan."
"Magic," he repeated softly, tasting the word on his tongue. The corners of his lips twitched despite himself.
"So, I guess I'm not hitting 'C' and waiting for a progress bar to fill up." he murmured.
Hepta Calamitates had hooked him in from the start because of its spellcraft—the sheer number of abilities, the thrill of weaving them together, the sensory rush that pushed his heart into overdrive even after tens of thousands of hours.
But this—this was different.
This was magic outside the screen.
Magic he could feel running through him.
And disturbingly, his body already knew what to do.
He closed his eyes and reached inward.
Somewhere deep in his core, just above his stomach, a glowing orb of energy pulsed like a living heart.
His mind touched it, and instinct took over.
Aether flooded through channels hidden beneath skin and bone, white-hot rivers rushing along unseen paths.
His breath caught as he guided it upward, into his hands, into the air.
The sensation was indescribable—raw, searing, intoxicating.
And without training, without hesitation, he shaped it.
His mind pulled and twisted the current, molding molten strands into deliberate coils.
The energy bent under his will, folding itself into patterns that shimmered with meaning he couldn't possibly know, yet somehow understood.
It was like remembering something he'd never learned.
And then, before he realized it, the spell was complete.
"
The air rippled like water struck by stone, distorting and bending light.
When the shimmer settled, he leaned forward, catching his reflection in the dark glass of the onyx throne.
The jagged streaks of lightning that had once run down his eyes were gone.
No more thunderbolt tattoos, no more mark of recognition.
His ceremonial robes—the signature navy-trimmed garments of the Eternal Wanderer—were now plain black, simple and unremarkable.
"Not like I've got a wardrobe stocked up here—unless my new body comes with a closet full of demon lord outfits."
But his mind caught on something far stranger.
"Wait…"
"What the hell was that?" he muttered.
Nothing about the casting had felt foreign.
It wasn't fumbling through instructions or learning a trick for the first time.
The flow of Aether, the shaping of intent—it had come to him as naturally as drawing breath.
'This was my first time actually using Magic.'
'So why did it feel like I had done it a thousand times before?'
'No game mechanic should feel this real.'
Hepta Calamitates had given him countless spells to play with, sure, but in the end, all it required was a phrase or a gesture. Just commands. Hollow rituals.
Nothing like this sensation of raw power threading through his veins.
It was as if he hadn't just been given a new body…but a new mind layered over his own. Or maybe not replaced—supplemented.
Padded with instincts, memories, and reflexes that belonged to someone else. Someone named Arthur Magnus.
The thought made his skin prickle.
'Am I still me?'
'Or just a shell carrying someone else's leftovers?'
The space trembled as he closed his unfamiliar hand into a fist, grounding himself.
"No. I'm still me," he whispered, the words resonating with a deeper, heavier sound than his own voice. His memories, his thoughts, his emotions—they were intact.
Only a few… additions lurked in the background. Tools. Tricks. Shortcuts that hadn't been his yesterday.
It was unsettling. Terrifying, even. But—
His crimson eyes lit faintly with wonder. "I just cast magic."
Real, undeniable, powerful magic.
It was neither a simulation nor a button press.
"If I can use magic this easily, I might be one step away from pulling off a Rasengan. Maybe a Final Flash would be a good backup."
The thrill washed over the unease, eclipsing it.
'Obsessing over identity isn't going to keep me alive.'
'Preparation would.'
He raised his hands and breathed into the still air.
That's when instincts—maybe, Arthur Magnus's instincts,—kicked out.
The mechanics of magic sang through his fingertips, a symphony of patterns that demanded precision but responded like muscle memory.
"
"
"
"
On and on, the layering continued, each incantation bending Aether in ways unique and fascinating.
He couldn't deny the thrill of it, even as caution tugged at him.
"If I can summon a dragon now, I'm definitely calling it Bahamut." He couldn't stop laughing, as giddy rush of power singed through his veins as he layered one enchantment after another.