The Inner World was not a place built for warmth. It was a vast, unmeasured manifestation of Albion's mind. An expanse without walls, ceiling, or a visible horizon. Distance simply dissolved into dark haze.
There was no wind, no weather, and no sun, yet the realm was illuminated by a strange, faint ambient light that seemed to exist as an inherent property of the space itself. Beneath everything lay the Black Water.
It looked like an endless, pitch-black ocean stretching toward infinity, its surface smooth and fluid. But when stepped on, it gave no way. It possessed a firm, stone-like solidity. Every movement across it, every step, jump, or impact, sent circular ripples spreading outward across the dark plane, overlapping and colliding before fading into nothingness.
Right now, the realm was crumbling. The dark sky above cracked like brittle. In the distance, the endless horizon crumbled inward, collapsing into pure void as Amon's spiraling, chaotic mind dragged the entire plane down with him.
Directly overhead, two massive, divine lights ignited.
To the left flared a striking white sun bounded by a deep black outline, casting a pale, intense radiance. To the right rose a midnight-black sun surrounded by a stark white outline, bathing the black floor in the shadow of a dark eclipse.
Between those two lights, on a random expanse of the rippling floor, a violent clash was underway.
Amon moved in a dark burst of speed as sweat dripped down his pale face, and dark purple bruises marked his jaw and cheek. His long, heavy black robe—hung with a severe, imposing weight—swished and dragged across the black floor with every jagged step.
Beneath his raised collar and half-hood, his messy, bone-white hair spilled out over his drained, corpse-like skin. All three of his vivid crimson eyes, including the third one set upon his temple, were sharp with desperate aggression. Thin, dark stitches bound his lips shut; every time his jaw clenched, the thread bit into his flesh, causing fresh beads of blood to trail down his chin.
In his small hand, Amon wielded a long, dark-purple sword forged from raw, solidified magical energy. Normally, shaping raw energy into semi-physical structures through Ethernal Manipulation was a feat reserved for master mages.
But Amon was the manifestation of Albion's accumulated negative emotions and their non-human lineage, blood derived from an unknown magical beast. Where humans required rigorous training to shape Mahō, beasts circulated raw energy instinctively.
Amon utilized that genetic advantage naturally, even if he lacked formal discipline.
He swung the purple blade in wild, aggressive, untrained arcs. But the vestige facing him moved with ruthless precision.
Gajeel's left arm had fully transformed into a thick, heavy iron club. He led every exchange, easily reading Amon's wild swings, countering with brutal movements.
They traded a frantic flurry of thrusts and strikes, metal crashing against dense energy until a sharp, glass-like shattering sound echoed across the void. It wasn't Gajeel's iron club that broke. It was Amon's sword.
Amon's face tensed in frustration. Before he could circulate his Mahō to regenerate the weapon, Gajeel closed the distance in an instant, disappearing from Amon's sight faster than the boy could track.
Gajeel drove his iron club straight into Amon's stomach. The impact folded his small body in half, an agonizing grunt escaped his stitched lips as he coughed up spit. Gajeel's superhuman strength slammed directly into the ribs that Albion had already injured with an iron pipe earlier in their fight.
He stumbled backward across the rippling black floor, clutching his side, dazed and gasping for air. Before he could regain his footing, a heavy, rushing sound filled the quiet space.
To his left, a towering wave of black water rose several feet into the air. Standing beside the surge was the vestige of Juvia, her small hands guiding the liquid with fluid, dance-like grace. With a sharp upward thrust of her arms, she sent the tidal wave crashing straight into Amon.
The weight of the water slammed into his bruised body, launching him high into the dark sky before slamming him violently back down onto the solid, liquid-like floor. He lay on his stomach, coughing up blood onto his hand, his entire body wracked with agonizing, searing pain. All three of his eyes wide with shock.
A short distance away, Albion lay in a pool of his own dark blood, watching the fight unfold.
He let out a weak, quiet sigh of relief.
'Good, they're holding him off. In fact... they might actually win. Juvia and Gajeel really are incredible.'
Albion looked down at his own torso. A deep, jagged cross-slash from Amon's previous attack gaped across his chest. His Magic power was almost completely spent; healing this level of injury without energy was excruciatingly slow.
'Once this closes, my Magic energy will be completely empty,' he reasoned. 'I won't be able to use Codex Magic at all.'
Truthfully, Albion wasn't panicked by the prospect of losing his magic temporarily. Codex Magic had provided him with no offensive capability or raw firepower anyway. In a direct physical fight, it was useless.
Adaptive evolution allowed his mind and body to learn at a rate no human could match, but it didn't instantly grant him new combat spells out of thin air. Up until now, his magic had been little more than fuel for basic self-preservation and regeneration.
Reaching down with trembling fingers, Albion slowly peeled the blood-soaked fabric of his robe away from the open wound. He winced, teeth grinding together as his flesh burned, agonizingly knitting itself back together.
Because his regeneration forced his body to feel everything, the healing process was pure agony. Wanting to avoid fusing his clothing into the closing skin, he stripped off the upper half of his white garment, tying the loose sleeves around his waist to keep his upper body bare.
He panted heavily, staring at his blood-stained hands, a flash of frustration tightening his chest.
'So useless...' he thought bitterly. But the frustration didn't break him; it grounded him. 'I have to keep moving forward.'
Across the black expanse, Amon slowly forced himself up onto his hands and knees.
He was panting heavily, clutching his ribs.
'Dang it... I'm so exhausted from my fight with Albion. I haven't had time to recover. And these two insects... these fakes... aren't giving me a second.'
He glanced at the shattered stub of the purple sword in his hand and scowled. 'This sword isn't working for me. It's too long. It doesn't fit how I move. I need something smaller... sharper. I need more imagination.'
He remembered how Albion had reached into the Black Water earlier to pull out a heavy iron pipe. For a split second, Amon considered trying to mold the Black Water himself, but he immediately discarded the thought.
Albion could pull objects from the floor because his Codex Magic granted him a flawless memory. He knew the structure of the iron pipe. Amon didn't have that. But Amon didn't need the Black Water. He had raw, concentrated magical energy.
He let out a harsh, bloody breath, pushing himself into a hunched standing position. "Come on now, Amon..." he whispered to himself, his stitches pulling tight. "Where's your imagination?"
He extended his right hand. A swarm of dark purple, glowing butterflies came from his skin, fluttering wildly around his small frame.
"I need something small... but with the sharpness of a sword," Amon muttered, a dark, jagged smile slowly spreading across his face. "Something that lets me get close. Something made to tear..."
The purple butterflies condensed into his palms, solidifying into a pair of heavy cleaver knives. He gripped the weapons, his three crimson eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"Perfect. I can envision it now... a better, more lethal version of myself."
He glared up at the two vestiges standing ready before him.
"Just try and get in my way, you fakes! I'll kill you both! Come at me!"
A violent, dark-purple aura erupted around Amon, rising behind him like a looming, monstrous silhouette. The vestiges of Gajeel and Juvia exchanged a silent glance and nodded.
Gajeel charged forward, his iron-transformed arms ready to strike, while Juvia stayed back, coiling the surrounding Black Water to strike from the flanks.
From the floor, Albion watched the clash resume.
He knew how these vestiges existed here. When he had briefly fought Gajeel in the Phantom Lord guildhall, he had observed every subtle detail of Gajeel's movement, balance, and even a fraction of his Iron Dragon Slayer Magic.
And when Juvia had explained her Magic in the corridor, her clear breakdown gave his mind everything it needed to simulate her power inside his mental plane.
Because Albion viewed both Gajeel and Juvia as formidable people his mind rendered their vestiges with incredible strength. He was, in a strange way, benefiting from his own sense of inferiority.
'Amon possesses a growth trait similar to mine,' Albion thought quietly, watching the purple cleavers clash against Gajeel's iron arms. 'Juvia and Gajeel are buying me time to heal... but I don't know if they can finish him. The real question isn't whether they're strong enough. It's whether Amon's adaptation will outpace them before my body finishes recovering.'
A sudden, deafening thud rattled the heavens above.
Albion's thoughts were cut short. He slowly lifted his head, looking far above the dual suns toward the highest layer of his mental plane—where the massive, black-scaled form of Reiga, the Black Dragon, was locked in a brutal war of its own.
Albion's eyes widened in shock at the sky, the true depth of his mind laying bare before him.