High above the Secret Atlas Institute Towers, drifting beyond the flow of local space-time, Raphael Arzenon remained in deep slumber.
Within the silent, weightless expanse of the void, a single conceptual timepiece hovered in the dark, its face glowing faint blue.
Four hours had passed, Raphael Arzenon opened his eyes.
The dim lighting of the small, sterile room bit into his pupils, burning slightly as his vision adjusted to the shadows. His throat felt dry, like coarse sand, and a dull, aching throb pulsed through his temples with every beat of his heart. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his muscles protesting against the sudden movement.
"Has it been four hours yet?" Raphael asked, turning his gaze toward Sion Eltnam Atlasia.
Sion, who had been dozing lightly in the chair beside his bed—her eyes half-open but alert—immediately straightened as Raphael stirred. Her sharp blue eyes locked onto him in an instant, taking in his posture, his breathing, and the faint tremor in his hands.
"Yes," her voice came out low, hoarse from exhaustion and the severe blood loss she had endured earlier, but notably clearer than before. She was not fully recovered, but she was awake, sharp, and attentive.
Sion checked her internal clock, the precise, mechanical rhythm of her Atlas-trained mind calculating the exact seconds down to the millisecond.
"Almost four," she said quietly, her tone measured. "You still have two hours left on your designated rest cycle."
She leaned forward slightly, studying his face. The color had not fully returned to his pale skin, and deep, dark shadows still clung stubbornly beneath his eyes like bruises.
Raphael swung his legs over the side of the mattress, testing his weight. He exhaled a ragged breath, running a hand through his unkempt hair.
"Only thirty percent of my magical energy has returned to me, even after sleeping for four hours," Raphael said, his eyes narrowing with bitter realization as he stared at his trembling palm. "But despite this, I am ready to continue fighting, even in this state."
Without another second of hesitation, Raphael jumped out of his bed. The movement was explosive, his feet hitting the floorboards with surprising stability for a man operating on barely a third of his total capacity. He didn't linger. He didn't check his wounds. His gaze locked directly onto the heavy exit door.
Sion's eyes widened as Raphael moved—fast, remarkably fast, despite his severely weakened state. The thin hospital blanket fell away from him, pooling onto the mattress behind him.
No hesitation, Sion realized in her mind, her breath catching as she watched him stride toward the hallway. No lingering in bed, no checking for comfort... He's already heading straight for the exit.
Her heart skipped a beat—not out of anger, but from a surge of genuine, cold worry.
Fighting in this condition? she thought to herself, her pulse quickening as her analytical mind ran the grim probabilities. Against who? What enemy is he planning to face with only thirty percent of his mana? Even a monster like him has limits. He's going to break himself!
Sion leapt out of her chair, her legs sweeping around to block the doorway. She didn't take an aggressive stance, but her body was firm, her arms stretched out slightly to form an impassable barrier—not to push him back, but to force him to stop and listen.
"Wait!" she said, her voice dropping into a calm, authoritative command that left no room for dismissal. "You're at thirty percent mana. Your body is still recovering from near-death strain after fighting three catastrophic battles in a single day!"
She locked eyes with him, refusing to yield an inch of ground.
"Wherever you're going... whatever this mission is—you can't do it like this!"
Raphael's expression hardened, his features setting into a look of absolute, unyielding gravity.
"I have to," Raphael stated, his voice ringing with a desperate, razor-sharp edge. "My mother, Emile Arzenon, is set to be executed by nightfall. And because I slept for four hours, I now only have eight hours left before that happens. Meanwhile, my friend, Akane Tohsaka, is about to be forced into a political marriage just six hours from now. I can't wait any longer."
Sion froze.
The words hit her with the physical weight of a leaden blow, echoing in the quiet room.
Emile Arzenon... executed by nightfall? Sion thought to herself, her mind momentarily short-circuiting under the sudden avalanche of dire information. And Akane Tohsaka forced into a marriage six hours from now?
Two lives.
Two horrifying emergencies.
Both set to end in total tragedy tonight—unless Raphael intervened.
Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn't known any of this. During their time together, he had never mentioned his mother, nor had he spoken a word about Akane Tohsaka. He had kept every ounce of his personal agonizing burdens buried deep inside his chest, hidden behind a quiet, stoic mask.
Now it makes sense, she realized, her chest tightening. Why he was so desperate to rest for exactly five hours and not a single minute more. He wasn't resting out of luxury—he was calculating every second he could spare before his time ran out.
The sheer urgency in Raphael's blood-red eyes was absolute. There was no room for negotiation, no time for tactical debate, and no space for argument. His mother faced a public execution. Akane—a cherished friend—was being sold off like property against her will.
And the invisible clock above their heads was ticking down rapidly, like a burning fuse nearing a powder keg.
Slowly, Sion lowered her arms and stepped aside, vacating the threshold. She knew that look in a warrior's eyes; it was the raw, unadulterated desperation of a son trying to save his mother, mixed with the quiet, dangerous fury of a protector. This was no longer about pride, crests, or grand magic politics.
This was family.
This was love.
And he had to save them, no matter the cost to his own broken body.
Without a second of hesitation, Sion turned to the chair, grabbing her long traveling coat and slinging her heavy alchemy pouch over her shoulder with practiced efficiency.
"Wait," she said quickly, her voice sharp as she moved right beside him—not to hold him back, but to fall into step. "I'm coming with you."
Raphael stopped in his tracks, his serious face instantly breaking into a look of complete and utter shock.
"Really?" Raphael asked, his voice laced with pure disbelief. "But you barely know me! Why would you help me for the third time? I mean... I understood when you helped me the first time when I landed near you by accident, since that was just you taking pity on me. And I understood you helping me the second time with the Church favor because I saved you... but why for this one?"
Sion met his wide, disbelieving gaze—her blue eyes steady, cold, and entirely unflinching.
"No," she said simply, her tone firm. "It is not pity. Nor is it because I owe you."
She crossed her arms lightly across her chest, the weight of her words settling into the room like unshakeable truth.
"You fought a Dead Apostle Ancestor," Sion declared smoothly. "You fought Gilgamesh—the King of Heroes—and won. You carried yourself through absolute hell for the sake of people you care about... and yet, after only four hours of sleep, you force your broken body up just to go and save them again."
She paused, letting the silence linger for a fleeting second.
"People who do that... are worth protecting."
Sion took a step closer to him, her voice softening slightly—not with fragile sentimentality, but with genuine, unshakeable sincerity.
"You didn't ask for anything from me," she continued, looking straight into his eyes. "Not once. You saved me from a collapsing city without even knowing my name. Then you stood there and let the Holy Church threaten you... and you still did nothing to harm them."
She shook her head gently.
"Now your mother is going to die. Your friend is being forced into a marriage. And you're running toward total danger at thirty percent power—all because you have no other choice."
She uncrossed her arms, her posture shifting into that of a partner preparing to step onto a battlefield.
"And I won't just stand by while that happens."
The utter confusion on Raphael's face slowly melted away, replaced by a warm, genuine, albeit tired smile.
"Thanks..." Raphael said softly, a quiet, lingering sadness creeping into his voice. "I wish I had nice friends like you in the past... maybe it would have saved me from my past loneliness. But I am grateful. If you want to help me save my mother and Akane, then you are welcomed to join me."
The small, exhausted smile on Raphael's face hit Sion differently than any brutal battle ever had. It wasn't the arrogant smirk of a victorious mage, nor was it the cold mask of an immortal warrior. It was just... raw gratitude. Relief.
And beneath it, a profound, aching history of isolation.
He said it so quietly, Sion thought to herself, her throat tightening as those words echoed in her mind. 'I wish I had nice friends like you in the past to save me from my loneliness...'
For a brief, fleeting moment, Sion looked past the terrifying reputation of the vampire king—past the god-slaying warrior who carried the fate of nations on his back—and saw the human beneath.
She saw a man who had walked through the dark entirely alone for centuries. A man who had bled, suffered, and stood in the cold without a single soul to stand beside him when his world fell apart.
Well, she thought, her jaw setting in quiet determination, you aren't alone anymore.
Sion didn't offer empty words of comfort or hollow reassurances. Instead, she simply gave him a firm, single nod.
Then, stepping forward, she did something entirely unexpected.
She wrapped her arms around him, pulling Raphael into a brief, firm hug.
It wasn't romantic, nor was it overly dramatic. It was simply human—a pure, unvarnished gesture of absolute solidarity from one warrior to another.
When she pulled back, her expression had already hardened into sharp, tactical focus once more, her mind transitioning seamlessly into the state of an Atlas alchemist preparing for war.
"Then let's move," Sion commanded briskly. "First target: your mother's execution site."
There was no delay in her posture, no trace of hesitation. The clock was ticking, and every second lost was a step closer to tragedy.
However, Raphael raised a hand, stopping her momentum.
"I was thinking of saving Akane Tohsaka first," Raphael explained, his eyes darkening as he laid out the timeline. "Her wedding happens six hours from now, while my mother's execution happens two hours after Akane's wedding."
Sion's mind worked with rapid, mathematical precision, processing the variables instantly.
Akane's forced marriage: six hours from now, Sion calculated internally. Emile's execution: two hours after that, meaning approximately eight hours from this very moment. If we secure Akane first, we prevent an irreversible political union, stabilize her safety, and clear the board to focus entirely on Emile's rescue with fewer chaotic variables.
It was a logical, sound assessment. Furthermore, forcing a woman into a magical marriage contract often carried permanent soul-binding consequences that could not easily be undone once the ceremony concluded.
Sion gave a single, decisive nod.
"Then we go for Akane first," Sion agreed, turning immediately toward the door.
As they strode briskly down the narrow corridor, Sion pulled out her high-frequency Atlas communication device, her fingers blurring across the interface as she composed a urgent, coded message to her trusted comrade:
[TO: RIESBYFE]
Need exact coordinates for the Tohsaka clan primary estate. Forced marriage ceremony scheduled in 6 hours. High probability of hostile extraction. Send data immediately.
Within three seconds, the device chimed, receiving a direct response from Riesbyfe containing full spatial coordinates and structural schematics: a heavily fortified, remote mountain villa owned exclusively by the high-ranking lineage of the Tohsaka family.
Sion memorized every line of the map instantly, closing the interface with a flick of her thumb.
There was no time for elaborate planning.
There were no backup forces on standby.
It was just the two of them—charging headfirst against the entire security force of an elite, ancient noble clan.
Raphael looked over at Sion, his crimson eyes tracking the swift, precise movements of her hands as she adjusted the straps of her gear. A quiet, contemplative shadow crossed his face.
"I wonder if I could have joined the Atlas Institute in the past," Raphael muttered to himself, his voice dropping into an understated, barely audible murmur. He wasn't addressing Sion directly, merely voicing the quiet doubts questioning his place in the Atlas hierarchy had he tried to enter without his current strength. "Most likely not, since based on what I was told, most people who join Atlas are either born into it or must have a supercomputer brain to join. And I don't think I fit either category... So being an Atlas Dog member is the best I could manage, it seems."
Sion, whose sharp senses picked up even the faintest vibrations in the air, overheard his quiet muttering clear as a bell in the silent chamber. She paused mid-step, her boots coming to a complete halt against the floorboards.
Atlas Dog member? Sion thought to herself, her brows pulling together as a sharp pang of irritation mixed with disbelief tightened her chest. That's... an absurd understatement. And coming from him, it's almost tragic.
The reality of the Atlas Institute was far more complex than common rumors suggested. While birthright and superhuman intellect certainly eased one's entry into the Alchemic Academy, the true criterion for belonging had always been contribution—what an individual could bring to humanity that no one else in the world could match.
And Raphael? she reasoned silently, her mind flashing through his documented combat records. He fought a Dead Apostle Ancestor. He defeated Gilgamesh, the King of Heroes. He saved entire cities from total annihilation without ever being asked or rewarded. If he had walked into Atlas years ago with those achievements, they wouldn't have made him an grunt. They would've appointed him a Research Director, a grand combat commander, or perhaps even the Head of Defense.
Sion didn't immediately interrupt his train of thought, knowing he was simply wrestling with his internal demons. Yet, something stirred deep within her chest—a quiet, burning frustration, not at Raphael himself, but at the rigid, elitist system that had forced him to view himself this way.
The Atlas Institute had always prioritized pedigree and singular genius: born alchemists and prodigies with organic supercomputers for brains, like Riesbyfe Stridberg or Satsuki Yumizuka. Raw physical power and combat capability beyond mortal limits had often been treated as mere technical afterthoughts. That was the sole reason someone like Raphael—the most formidable combatant they had ever encountered—was categorized as a "partial member" on paper. It was not a reflection of his lack of worth, but a flaw in their ancient bureaucratic framework.
Sion turned to face Raphael fully, her expression shifting into a calm, unyielding mask—the look of an alchemist preparing to correct a glaring flaw in a mathematical formula.
"You're wrong," she said simply, her tone cutting cleanly through the quiet hallway.
Raphael stopped, blinking at her in sudden surprise. "Huh?"
"Not an Atlas Dog. Not a partial member. And certainly not a technicality," she declared, taking a deliberate step closer to him. "If you had joined the Atlas Institute years ago with your power—with the impossible things you've accomplished—they would have made you an Honorary Director on day one. No entrance examinations. No probationary trial period."
She paused, letting the weight of her words sink into the quiet air between them.
"People like you don't 'apply' to join," Sion stated firmly. "They are recruited... and handed absolute authority the second they walk through the front door."
Raphael looked down at his boots, a dark, self-deprecating shadow passing over his features as he let out a bitter, quiet breath.
"That's where you're wrong," Raphael murmured, his voice heavy with sadness as old, buried memories resurfaced in his mind. "Because before the Vampire War, I was just a talentless mage with below-average intelligence toward magecraft. It was only after a certain accident eleven weeks ago that my power rose beyond what most mages could ever hope to reach. So when I question myself, I am wondering... if it wasn't for that accident eleven weeks ago, would I just be an Atlas Dog? Or would they have seen me as pathetic as the Clock Tower did? The main reason I couldn't make friends in the past was because I was bullied relentlessly in the Clock Tower for being a talentless mage. Some of them only show me respect now because of my sudden increase in power."
Sion's stern posture softened completely. There was no pity in her eyes, nor a trace of condescension—only deep, solemn understanding.
This isn't about rank or military standing anymore, Sion realized in her mind, her heart aching slightly for the man standing before her. This is about deep-seated pain. The boy who couldn't even cast a basic spell without failing... bullied, mocked, and isolated by the very aristocrats who now tremble at the mere mention of his name.
That "accident" eleven weeks ago hadn't just been a sudden jump in magical capacity; it had been the violent, traumatic pivot point of his entire existence. To transform overnight from a helpless nobody into a terrifyingly absolute force of nature was a burden few minds could carry without fracturing.
Sion refrained from offering hollow, superficial platitudes like 'It's fine now' or 'They just couldn't see your value.' She knew all too well that empty words meant nothing to someone who had survived true, crushing loneliness.
Instead, she took a slow step forward and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. It was a firm, grounding touch—devoid of romantic pretense or patronizing pity. It was simply human.
"You were never pathetic," she said softly, but with an absolute firmness that demanded he listen. "The mages of the Clock Tower judge humanity on instantaneous, superficial results—who can cast the flashiest, highest-tier spells at fifteen years old."
Her blue eyes narrowed slightly, the logical scientist within her surfacing.
"True power isn't merely inherited by bloodlines," Sion continued, looking directly into his crimson eyes. "It is forged through suffering. That accident eleven weeks ago didn't turn you into a monster or a freak. It unlocked something that was already dormant inside you—perhaps latent potential, perhaps a extreme physical reaction to severe trauma... but regardless of how it happened, it does not erase the person you were before it occurred."
She paused, tightening her grip on his shoulder just enough to anchor his attention.
"And that person—the bullied mage who was beaten down every single day yet refused to give up and die? That boy was worth more than half of those arrogant so-called 'geniuses' in the Clock Tower combined."
Raphael stared back at her, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with her words.
"Yes, but without that accident, do you honestly think if I tried joining the Atlas Institute back then, I wouldn't have remained as just an Atlas Dog?" Raphael asked, the raw vulnerability breaking through his usual stoic voice. "Because you said it yourself—if I joined Atlas back then with my current power, I would be placed above most Directors. But that is me with my current power! What about me back then... as a talentless, weak mage, huh?"
Sion considered his question deeply. She didn't dismiss it defensively, nor did she attempt to sugarcoat the harsh realities of the world for the sake of his pride. She processed the hypothetical scenario objectively.
If Raphael had arrived at the gates of Atlas back then, Sion thought logically to herself, with no magical output, no combat achievements, and an average intellect... what would the elders have done?
She exhaled a long, quiet breath.
"...Probably yes," Sion admitted honestly.
She refused to lie to him.
"Atlas does not accept individuals without immediate, demonstrable merit," she explained straightforwardly. "We train prodigies—geniuses with supercomputers for brains, or born alchemists like myself and Riesbyfe."
She stepped back slightly, letting her hand fall from his shoulder.
"If you had come to Atlas back then—with no accident, no sudden power surge, just a quiet mage with ordinary skills—they would have turned you away at the gate," Sion stated. It was not said with malice, but with cold, objective truth. "Atlas simply does not possess the resources or patience to nurture every struggling mage in the world. We only take those who display world-altering potential from the very beginning, or those who make a catastrophic contribution to human history later on. And back then... you had not done either yet."
She looked at him with crystal clarity. "Atlas has never been kind to the weak. It never has been, and it likely never will be."
She recalled her own upbringing—a prodigy born into a prestige lineage, subjected to rigorous alchemical training since early childhood. She had never known the specific brand of cruel isolation Raphael had suffered. Yet, that did not mean his past struggle was meaningless.
Sion's expression softened once more as a fundamental principle of Atlas philosophy crossed her mind.
"Still..." she added quietly, her voice ringing with deep sincerity. "You were never truly weak."
Raphael blinked, looking up at her. "What?"
"Not in the way that mattered most," Sion clarified, locking eyes with him. "You possessed extraordinary persistence. You survived relentless psychological and physical abuse. You continued to study the mechanics of magecraft even when every single person around you treated you like trash. That specific brand of stubborn, unyielding will? It is far rarer than a high-grade Magic Circuit."
She offered a subtle nod. "If Atlas possessed a evaluation system that valued raw resilience over born talent... perhaps they would have recognized you."
Raphael let out a long, heavy sigh, running a hand through his dark hair as he stared at the stone floor.
"Well... at least I know that currently, the only reason I have the potential to be placed above most Directors in Atlas is because I was lucky enough to have an accident that made me powerful enough to earn merits in this Vampire War," Raphael muttered, a faint, bitter smile touching his lips.
Sion nodded slowly. Objectively, his logic was sound. His current standing, his terrifying reputation, and the fact that he could walk into the heart of Atlas today and be offered a Director's seat on sight all stemmed directly from that singular event eleven weeks ago. Without it, he would have remained an unheard-of student buried beneath the prestige of elite families.
"Luck," Sion spoke carefully, choosing her words with mathematical precision, "merely presented you with the doorway."
She took another step closer, her voice swelling with a quiet, undeniable intensity.
"But you were the one who walked through it and survived," she declared firmly. "That accident did not grant you tactical wisdom or combat instincts. It merely turned the key to a door that was locked inside you. You were always resilient, Raphael. The war? The constant life-or-death battles? They were not easy, even with your immense magical capacity. But you fought through them anyway. You saved cities from collapse. You stood toe-to-toe against ancient gods and walked away alive."
She tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes gleaming with absolute conviction.
"And that is what Atlas values now—not merely raw, unrefined power, but tangible impact on human survival," Sion stated, crossing her arms. "Sure, the accident gave you the foundation of your strength. But it was you—your unyielding will, your moral choices, your refusal to break—that made you matter in this war."
A small, wry smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
"If anything... the true tragedy isn't that you weren't noticed before," Sion concluded softly. "It's that the world was too blind to see what you were truly capable of becoming."
Raphael looked away toward the far end of the corridor, his gaze drifting as if looking into a distant future beyond the bloodshed of their present reality.
"If it's possible... after we save Akane Tohsaka and my mother, Emile, and finally end this Vampire War..." Raphael said quietly, his voice carrying an unspoken weight as the words hung suspended in the air. "...let's change the Atlas Institute system in the future together."
He didn't elaborate further on how they would accomplish such a monumental task, leaving the bold declaration floating softly between them.
Sion's smirk faded, replaced by a slow, genuine smile—a rare, radiant curve of her lips that only surfaced when something of profound importance had been uttered. She looked at Raphael not as an immortal weapon of mass destruction, nor as a terrifying anomaly of nature, but as a comrade with genuine vision and heart.
"Yeah," Sion answered softly, without a single shred of hesitation or doubt in her tone. "If we survive this... and save your mother and Akane... let's change Atlas."
Her voice hardened with newfound purpose. "No more turning away capable, resilient people simply because they weren't born as supercomputers. No more ignoring human heart in favor of raw efficiency."
Raphael suddenly paused, looking at her with a slightly bewildered expression before a playful, mischievous glint entered his crimson eyes.
"Also... why do you keep thinking of me as a vampire?" Raphael asked, stepping forward and playfully lightly tapping the top of her head with his knuckles. "I'm a human mage, you know!"
"Ow—!" Sion cleared her throat abruptly, stepping back as her usual cool, analytical composure shattered. A faint, unmistakable shade of pink bloomed across her pale cheeks as she smoothed down her hair.
"Right..." she stammered slightly, trying her best to regain her dignified stance. "You're... not a vampire."
She paused, crossing her arms tightly—not out of defensiveness, but to conceal her sudden, rare moments of awkwardness.
"I... may have made an incorrect assumption," she admitted quietly. "My apologies."
In my defense, Sion thought to herself, her mind frantically trying to rationalize her mistake, almost every entity in recorded history capable of fighting on par with Dead Apostle Ancestors and divine spirits belongs to the True Ancestor or High-Vampire species! When someone moves like a god, regenerates from lethal wounds, and wipes out armies single-handedly, my logical deduction defaulted to 'vampire'!
"I am powerful because ever since the accident, I gained the ability to reconstruct anything I analyze," Raphael explained seriously, revealing the true nature of his mysterious power. "Which is basically what I have been doing this whole war—just analyzing the Dead Apostles, reconstructing their abilities, and using them against them. It's also how I beat Gilgamesh. I analyzed his Divine Gates, reconstructed the foundational structure to create my own Execution Gates, but instead of firing Noble Phantasms like Gilgamesh, I can shoot high-tier Magecraft spells through my Gates, completely bypassing the need for spell incantations."
Sion's eyes widened in absolute, unadulterated shock. Her breath caught in her throat as her brilliant, alchemical mind instantly calculated the terrifying implications of what he had just disclosed.
Reconstruction... through complete analysis?! Sion thought to herself, her pulse racing as her internal processing units worked at maximum capacity. To copy, adapt, and reconstruct high-tier magecraft, dead apostle traits, and divine constructs after seeing them only once?! That isn't just an increase in mana output... that is a complete, fundamental violation of established magical theory!
Most master mages spent decades, sometimes entire lifetimes, mastering a single specialized branch of magecraft. Some exceptional geniuses could mimic techniques with immense effort and preparation. But Raphael didn't merely mimic—he fully analyzed, reverse-engineered, optimized, and deployed complex magical systems instantaneously.
Dead Apostle abilities, Gilgamesh's Gate of Babylon, divine spatial manipulation—he had decoded them all like raw programming script and rewritten them as his own personal arsenal.
When Sion finally found her voice, it came out much quieter than usual, thick with profound awe.
"...You didn't just become strong after the accident," Sion whispered, taking a small, deliberate step toward him. "You completely rewrote the rules of magic itself."
That ability was not merely a weapon; it was the ultimate form of comprehension. To reconstruct anything meant he understood the fundamental truth of the universe better than almost anyone alive.
Raphael's expression instantly turned dead serious, his red eyes fixing her with a stern, cautioning look.
"Yes... just don't tell the others I have access to this," Raphael warned solemnly. "I don't want to become a test subject in a lab who gets experimented on every single day, okay?"
Sion nodded immediately, her expression shifting into absolute, uncompromising seriousness.
"Of course," Sion swore without a second of hesitation. "Your ability remains strictly between the two of us."
She didn't need to be warned twice. She understood with terrifying clarity what would happen if the Atlas Institute, the Holy Church, or the remnants of the Clock Tower learned that a human existed who could analyze and reconstruct any magical spell or divine construct in existence. They would deploy every sealing enforcer on the planet to capture him. They would lock him in the deepest underground vault, dissect his brainwaves, systematically extract his blood, and run brutal, non-stop experiments to replicate his trait.
He would lose his freedom, his identity, and his humanity.
Sion raised her right hand to her lips, dramatically making a motion as if zipping her mouth shut, locking it with an imaginary key, and throwing the key over her shoulder into the dark. It was a silent, solemn oath.
She knew the dark reality of research facilities better than anyone. Raphael was not a tool to be cataloged, dissected, or exploited by ambitious mages. He was a human being who had chosen to bleed and suffer to protect others.
"Now," Raphael said, his tone shifting back to the urgent mission at hand, "let's teleport to Akane Tohsaka's location first."
Sion nodded sharply, setting aside all theoretical discussions as her combat focus returned.
"Right. Akane Tohsaka first," Sion agreed briskly.
She reached into her coat and pulled out a compact, high-precision Atlas spatial beacon—a specialized alchemy device designed for short-range spatial relocation within bounded fields. While it lacked the vast power required to jump across continents or dimensional layers, it was more than capable of pinpointing coordinates within the local mountain region.
Raphael stepped right beside her, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder to anchor their spatial coordinates together.
Sion inputs the precise coordinates received from Riesbyfe, her fingers blurring across the glowing alchemy interface.
"Setting destination: Tohsaka Estate – Mountain Outpost," Sion commanded clearly.
A soft, brilliant azure glow erupted from the device, swirling around their feet like a rising tide of luminescent threads. The surrounding air distorted violently as spatial magic wove their exit pathway, folding the distance between their current location and the distant Tohsaka stronghold. In a flash of blinding light, their figures vanished from the quiet corridor, leaving behind only the faint lingering scent of ozone.