Garen did not yet draw his blade, but his posture shifted, broad shoulders leaning slightly forward, voice heavy with command.
"According to Demacian law, your very presence here is a crime. And that is without even accounting for the damage you inflicted upon Castle Wrenwall."
The mage, Asta, let out a long, weary sigh, murmuring more to himself than to anyone else.
"Every time I end up in a new country, it's always something…"
Garen ignored the words, his gaze never leaving the man before him. "I would advise that you turn yourself in. Yet from the reports I have received, you resisted detainment. Clearly, you will not submit peacefully."
This time, his gauntleted hand fell to the hilt of his greatsword. The motion carried weight enough to ripple through the courtyard.
"Now, give me one good reason why I should not cut you down where you stand, mage."
At once, the Dauntless Vanguard moved as one. Behind Garen, shields shifted, steel rasped faintly against scabbards, and disciplined hands fell to hilts. Cithria felt her pulse quicken as her own fingers brushed the pommel of her sword, ready to draw at the first spark. Beside the Sword-Captain, Shyvana's claws flexed with restrained menace, her presence radiating heat as the nearby Dragon Guard lower their spears with a sharp, practiced snap.
Asta raised both hands quickly, palms open in a gesture of peace. "Whoa, whoa! Calm down, all of you! I'm not the enemy here, seriously!"
"Do not attempt deceit, mage!" Garen's voice boomed across the yard, cutting through the tension like a blade through armor. "Surrender at once. You will answer to Demacia for the destruction wrought here today."
"But I didn't do it!" Asta shouted back, his words loud enough to clash with Garen's, but without the Sword-Captain's gravitas. His tone was raw, even a little annoying. "Man, you guys really hate mages that much?"
Asta's gaze flicked past Garen to the woman beside him. He jabbed a finger in Shyvana's direction, brows furrowed. "Wait, what about her? Isn't she a magic person too?"
The half-dragon's lips curled into a scoff, her tone edged like steel. "I am a spear of Demacia. I serve this kingdom. I am no criminal. You, however, are an enemy."
Asta threw his arms wide in frustration. "But why though!?" His voice cracked with exasperation before it trailed into a heavy sigh. His shoulders sagged, the fight in his stance giving way to something else. To Cithria, it wasn't quite surrender, it was as if a strange calm had settled over him.
"Fine then," he muttered, though there was a stubborn finality in the words. "Let's settle this."
From his hip came the sharp click of a clasp breaking open. A leather satchel stirred, and in a heartbeat, a thick tome slid free and rose into the air, its pages fluttering as if carried by unseen hands. The sight alone sent a coil of dread twisting in Cithria's chest. The mere presence of the book radiated power, and her instincts screamed at her that nothing good would come once it opened.
He was about to cast. She knew it. They all knew it.
Cithria surged forward, boots striking stone, but Garen and Shyvana were faster. The Sword-Captain's greatsword arced down in a shining sweep, the air itself cleaving beneath its weight. At the same moment, Shyvana's claws flashed free, her strike a blur of sharpened steel and scale aimed straight for the mage's throat.
Clang!
The sound cracked like a bell, sharp and unnatural. Sparks burst as Garen's greatsword met not flesh but iron-hard resistance. Asta had raised his wooden training blade, and with one arm alone, he caught the full weight of the Might of Demacia's strike.
At the same instant, his other hand shot up and clamped around Shyvana's wrist. Her claws stopped dead, muscles straining, but the mage's grip did not budge.
Cithria froze mid-step, heart hammering, her breath caught in her throat. The impossible sight burned itself into her mind, one man, holding back both Garen Crownguard and Shyvana, with nothing but raw strength and a wooden sword.
"Whoa!" Asta exclaimed, his grin flashing despite the tension. "You guys are pretty fast. Faster than I was when I first joined the Magic Knights."
Cithria's brow furrowed. 'Magic Knights?' The name meant nothing to her. 'Surely such an order would have reached our ears at least once… Arbormark, perhaps?' Her thought faltered as movement drew her eyes back to the floating tome.
Something stirred from within its pages. At first, it seemed like a shadow stretching free, but no, it was solid, steel-dark, and heavy. A hilt broke through the surface of the book, followed by a strange crossguard, and then the unmistakable breadth of a blade.
With a resounding thunck! a massive greatsword of black steel plunged into the stones at Asta's side. The courtyard floor quivered faintly under its weight, a vibration Cithria felt in her boots. The weapon stood taller than most men, a thing of sheer brutality, born from a book that radiated unmistakable sorcery.
Garen braced as Asta's wooden blade pressed back against his greatsword. The Sword-Captain's boots screeched against the frost-slick stones, sparks hissing where steel scraped stone.
Then Asta's leg snapped out in a sudden, brutal kick. His heel struck Shyvana square in the stomach with a sound like a hammer striking iron.
"Gah!" The half-dragon staggered, then was flung backward outright, her armored form sailing past Cithria in a blur before she crashed into the stone wall with bone-rattling force. Dust and frost shook loose from the impact.
Cithria's breath caught. 'He kicked her… through the air?'
"Ah. My bad." Asta's voice carried with alarming nonchalance as he glanced over his shoulder at Shyvana's crumpled form. He looked almost sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. "She looked really strong, so I thought she'd be tougher. Guess I used too much strength."
For a moment, the absurdity of his tone clashed violently with the devastation he'd just dealt. Bewilderment stirred in Cithria's chest, but instinct overrode it quickly.
By then, she was no longer alone. The Dauntless Vanguard had surged forward, shields raised, spears leveled. The Dragon Guard spread out beside them, steel tips glittering in the pale light. Together they formed a wall of steel and will, encircling the mage in a tightening ring.
Asta, for his part, stood calmly in the center, one hand on his wooden blade, the other resting lightly near the colossal black sword that still jutted from the ground at his side. He didn't even flinch at the sight of two dozen weapons aimed directly at his heart.
Asta glanced down at the wooden sword in his hand. With a casual flick, he tossed it over his shoulder; it clattered uselessly against the frost-stained stone. His hand closed instead around the black hilt jutting from the earth.
When he pulled, the courtyard shuddered. Stone cracked beneath his boots as the greatsword tore free with a grinding roar, fragments of cobblestone breaking apart from the force. The sheer weight of the weapon seemed enough to bow the ground itself, yet he hefted it as though it were nothing more than a training blade.
Garen stepped forward, Judgement raised before him, the golden steel catching the pale light of the frost. His presence loomed over the courtyard, every inch the Sword-Captain of Demacia.
Asta answered in kind. He lifted the massive blade with a single hand, the black steel humming faintly in the cold air, and leveled its edge at Garen. His green eyes sparked with challenge.
"Well, what do you say, Commander?" His voice was steady, almost eager. "Just me and you. Settle this without dragging anyone else into it. No need for more people to get hurt."
Cithria's heart lurched. Every fiber of her training told her to shout a warning, to beg Garen not to face this monster alone. The mage had already thrown Shyvana like a doll, how could anyone hope to match that strength? And yet… her pride in her Sword-Captain smothered the thought. If anyone could stand, it would be him. He would not lose. He could not.
"Against a sorcerer's blade of unknown power?" Garen's grim tone carried across the courtyard, though his grip did not falter.
"It's not a magic sword." Asta cut in quickly, shaking his head. "It's an anti-magic sword."
Garen blinked. "What?"
"Anti-magic," Asta repeated, swinging the weapon in a broad arc. Despite its size, the blade moved with startling speed, whistling through the cold air. "There's no magic in the Demon Slayer."
Cithria's stomach knotted. 'The Demon Slayer…?' The very name of the weapon set her nerves alight. Her eyes lingered on its impossible weight, its black sheen that reflected no light. 'That is no petricite…'
"That looks nothing like any petricite sword I've ever seen," Garen said aloud, his tone edged, as if plucking the thought straight from her mind.
Asta tilted his head, brow furrowing in confusion. "Petricite? Oh, you mean that white metal your weapons are made of? I guess this sword used to be white once, back when Licht wielded it, but that was before it was infused with Anti-Magic, then it turned black."
"Infused?" Garen repeated, his voice edged with doubt. "You expect me to believe Anti-Magic can be infused into something?"
Asta waved his hand, gesturing with the massive blade as if it were nothing more than a stick. "I'm serious. If you don't believe me, check it yourself. Uh… do you have some way of detecting magic?" He scratched his cheek, suddenly uncertain.
The room fell into silence. Cithria could feel the collective pause, everyone exchanging baffled glances. The same thought flickered across their minds. 'Is he actually serious?'
"I-In fact, we do," came a measured voice. One of the MageSeekers stepped forward from the line of guards beside the Dragon Guard. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair visible beneath the golden mask that obscured half his face.
"Neat," Asta said brightly, hefting the greatsword toward him. The sudden motion caused an immediate stir, shields shifted, blades raised, the entire ring of soldiers tightening as if preparing for the worst.
Asta blinked at the reaction. "Uh… relax." He planted the blade into the stone floor with a dull thunk and backed away two steps, hands raised in mock surrender.
The MageSeeker hesitated, gaze flicking between Asta, the embedded sword, and Garen, who looked distinctly unamused by this entire exchange. Then, with a breath, the Seeker stepped forward. From within his robes, he drew a small silver emblem shaped like a stylized flower.
A Petricite GreyMark. A tool the MageSeekers favored, capable of detecting and nullifying magical traces simply by proximity.
The MageSeeker advanced with measured steps, his gloved hand outstretched as the GreyMark drew closer to the sword buried in the stone. The silver emblem pulsed faintly in the dim light, its flowery shape catching the glow of nearby torches.
Nothing happened. No flare, no hum, no reaction at all.
The man froze, confusion tightening his features beneath the golden mask. "How…? How is this possible?"
Asta took a curious step forward, only to make the soldiers flinch again. He quickly shuffled back with both hands raised. "Whoa, relax! I'm just asking. So, uh, what is that thing? What's it supposed to do?"
Garen's voice cut through the tension, low and steady. "That is a Petricite GreyMark. It detects and nullifies magic."
A look of recognition dawned across Asta's face. "Ah, so basically the same as my sword. Got it. Huh… how does it nullify magic though? I thought I was the only one who could do stuff like that. Back home, people would kill for something like this."
His casual words unsettled the chamber more than any threat might have. Cithria felt her chest tighten, was he truly treating this like an everyday curiosity?
"So the sword really isn't magic?" Garen asked, his gaze narrowing on the MageSeeker.
The man faltered, his composure cracking. His fingers tightened around the GreyMark as he glanced between the weapon, the mage, and his commander. "I… I don't know. I honestly don't know what to make of this. We all saw it emerge from the tome. That alone should mark it as magic, and yet…" He trailed off, uncertainty heavy in his tone.
Garen fixed him with a hard stare, one that wordlessly said. 'You're asking me to explain this?'
"So… about that duel?" Asta asked, giving a casual wave of his hand toward Garen. His grin was disarmingly earnest, as though the two of them were merely sparring partners. "I won't use any kind of magic or powers. I just want to see how strong you are, as a fellow magicless swordsman."
The words only deepened the strangeness of the encounter. Every sentence that came out of this mage's mouth seemed to make less and less sense, as though he lived in a world entirely apart from their own.
For a fleeting moment, Garen felt the urge to voice his frustration, to demand clarity, to shout down the absurdity of it all. But the eyes of his men were upon him, and the weight of his station left no room for outbursts. The Sword-Captain of Demacia could not afford to look shaken.
So instead, he straightened his shoulders, his expression settling into the unshakable steel of command. He gave a single, firm nod.
"Very well," Garen said, his voice carrying across the frost-cracked courtyard. "I accept your challenge."