Flaw Of RuneTerra (Black Clover X League Of Legends)

[SaberGlory]

"I'm sorry, what?" Cithria blinked, staring in disbelief as the Sword-Captain all but shouted his surprise at the report.

She herself could hardly believe what the Demacian soldier had just delivered.

"Castle Wrenwall was attacked. By mages," the soldier repeated, voice steady despite the tension that hung in the air. "I bear a message from the High Marshal. She requests your presence following the meeting of the Silver Council."

Garen gave a single, sharp nod. "When?"

"At second bell, sir," the messenger replied.

Without wasting another breath, Garen strode toward the council chamber. He arrived at the antechamber just as the last of the nobles were filing out, the toll of the second bell echoing faintly through the halls.

As though on cue, one of the great council doors swung open in silence. The two guards stationed at either side struck the butts of their halberds against the marble floor in salute, and an attendant motioned Garen forward.

The chamber beyond was austere, dominated by an octagonal table at its center. But Garen's eyes were drawn not to the furniture, but to the three figures waiting beside it.

High Marshal Tianna Crownguard stood foremost, his father's sister, and the de facto commander of Demacia's armies. At her side was Prince Jarvan IV, heir of the late king and Garen's closest friend.

And standing with them was Lord Eldred. As always, half of his stern, regal face was concealed by a golden mask, and a petricite disk inscribed with geometric runes rested against his breastplate. He was the leader of the MageSeekers, and his mere presence carried an air of severity.

A scatter of papers lay across the council table, some already half-crumpled from restless handling. Jarvan held one of them in his hand, his expression strained, unease flickering in the tightness of his jaw.

Tianna and Eldred turned toward Garen at once, the High Marshal's gaze sharp and measuring, the Mageseeker's hidden eyes unreadable behind his mask. Jarvan followed a heartbeat later, slower, more reluctant.

Garen saluted in the traditional Demacian fashion, crossing his arms over his chest with clenched fists before stepping forward to stand across from them. The weight of their scrutiny pressed heavily on his shoulders, and he forced himself not to look away.

Jarvan sighed quietly, as though resigned to what was about to unfold.

"Strength through discipline," Tianna said by way of greeting, her voice clipped and formal.

"Honour through diligence," Garen answered without hesitation, ignoring Jarvan's weary exhale just as his aunt and Eldred surely did.

"I assume you've heard the news," Jarvan began, eager to dispense with ceremony.

"Only that Wrenwall was attacked, my prince," Garen admitted. "By mages, no less."

"Indeed." Jarvan extended the document in his hand. "Two mages of immense power. They left Castle Wrenwall in ruins."

Garen's eyes skimmed the parchment, narrowing as the report grew more confounding. "They were… fighting each other?"

"Fools, the both of them," Eldred snarled, his voice edged with contempt. "To flaunt their power so brazenly in our very lands, it is an insult."

"But why?" Garen pressed. "They must know they'd be hunted down at once. Wouldn't they be wiser to remain hidden?"

"Who can fathom how their accursed ilk thinks?" Eldred spat, his scowl twisting behind the half-mask.

Garen forced himself not to look at the Mageseeker too directly. Eldred's words cut too close to the thought he fought to suppress, his sister. Luxanna Crownguard. Officially missing, she was. Yet Garen clung to the fragile hope that wherever she had fled, guiding her fellow mages, she was safe… and far beyond Eldred's reach.

He turned to Eldred finally. "Why haven't they been apprehended then? If they didn't bother to hide themselves then surely it wouldn't be any trouble capturing them."

It was Tianna who handed him the next document. Her expression was grave. "The reports from the knights stationed at Wrenwall are… troubling."

Garen took the parchment and scanned its contents as she went on. "Their power was so overwhelming that even the petricite arms and armor proved ineffective. This account comes from Knight-Commander Alric Wrenford himself."

Eldred let out a harsh scoff. "Sylas' magic was formidable as well, yet he nearly met his end at your hand, did he not?" His single visible eye flicked toward Garen.

He folded his arms with a sharp motion. "If one Dawnguard could bring Sylas to his knees, then these upstarts will fare no better."

"That would be… fool, not fools." Jarvan interjected, his tone edged with disapproval.

Eldred's masked face shifted slightly as he turned toward the Crown Prince. "I beg your pardon?"

Tianna cut across them before the tension could escalate. "Indeed, the clash ended with only one survivor. Of the two mages, one lies dead. The other yet lives."

The chamber grew still after Tianna's words, the silence threaded with unspoken weight. Garen lowered the parchment slowly, its crumpled edge rough against his gauntlet.

"What do I have to do with any of this?" he asked at last, voice measured but firm. "Surely Wrenwall's defense lies with its own commander. If a single mage remains at large, the MageSeekers are well-suited to pursue them. Why call me here?"

Eldred bristled at the implication, but it was Jarvan who answered first. "The chances of it being another like Sylas is not zero. The ability to use magic even while under the petricite's effect is something unique to Sylas, at the moment."

Tianna inclined her head. "And because the mages fought each other. That is what troubles us most. If they were rebels seeking to strike Demacia, their target would have been clear. But they turned their power on one another, heedless of our soldiers, heedless of the fortress itself. Wrenwall was merely… the stage for their quarrel."

Garen's brow furrowed. "That does sound troubling. Such a bold display of confidence."

Jarvan's hand tightened around the edge of the table. "One that is severely misplaced, I assure you. However, If this mage still lives, we must know what manner of enemy, or ally, he truly is."

Eldred's masked face turned sharply toward the prince. "Ally? Your Highness, forgive me, but to speak of alliance with such filth..."

"It is not alliance I spoke of," Jarvan cut him off, his tone hard as steel. "If these reports hold even a semblance of truth-"

Garen noticed the faintest shift in the High Marshal's expression at that, her jaw tightening at the suggestion that a Knight of Demacia might lie in his report.

"-then there may be, perhaps, the chance for an unexpected boon," Jarvan finished, his words carrying more caution than conviction.

Garen knew the prince did not truly believe it, merely covering every possibility. Still, the insinuation left an unwelcome taste in his mouth. Loyalty demanded trust, not doubt.

Tianna's eyes moved from the prince to Garen, steady and resolute. "As one of the few Vanguards to have faced Sylas directly, you are best suited to this task. You will lead a detachment of MageSeekers to assess the truth of this mage. I have requested that Shyvana and the DragonGuard accompany you. Should this survivor prove as dangerous as the reports suggest, their presence will not be wasted."

Garen inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Understood. I will depart at once."

"Good," Tianna replied, gathering the scattered documents from his hands and stacking them neatly atop the pile. "We expect a second set of reports by nightfall. Should your orders change, the message will reach you before you arrive at Wrenwall."

She straightened to her full height, the mantle of command settling on her like armor. "You are dismissed, Sword-Captain. Duty calls."

Garen crossed his arms over his chest in the Demacian salute. Then, with crisp precision, he turned on his heel and marched from the chamber, the echo of his boots trailing in the vaulted silence behind him.

---

Cithria allowed herself a small smile as Cloudfield's hooves struck the packed earth beneath her. She had named her steed in quiet homage to her beginnings, a reminder of the humble village she had once called home.

Ahead, the riders of the First Shield kept their steady pace, armored silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the rolling Demacian countryside. Directly in front of her rode Alys Morn, the company's medic, who even now was locked in a familiar quarrel with Eben Hess. The seasoned soldier's grumbling carried back over the clatter of harness and steel, sharp with exasperation.

It felt like only yesterday Cithria had been a wide-eyed squire, gawking in disbelief at her chance to ride beside the heroes of the Dauntless Vanguard. That first exhilaration still lived in her chest, though now it was tempered, sharpened by the memory of what came after.

The expedition to Nockmirch. The battle that had tested not only her skill but the very convictions she had once held unshakable.

That had been over three moons ago, and yet the scars of it still lingered, making the time since feel far longer. And now here they were again, riding to Castle Wrenwall on another mission. Officially, it was to assess a mage. But as Cithria's grip tightened on her reins, she could not help the thought:

'It sounds more like we're riding to apprehend them.'

Ahead, Hess's voice broke her reverie.

"It's just one mage!" His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched, and a vein ticked in his temple as he glared at Morn, who met his bluster with her usual unflinching calm. "We're the Vanguard, for heaven's sake. Any regiment could've handled this."

"Doesn't matter what we think, does it?" Morn replied, her tone flat as steel. "They deemed this mage worth our attention, so here we are. Orders are orders."

Hess gave a frustrated grunt, his shoulders sagging as if even he knew the argument was already lost. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Cithria bit the inside of her cheek to stifle her laughter. Watching Morn dismantle Hess with nothing but a few clipped words never failed to amuse her.

The column pressed on, steel-shod hooves striking in measured rhythm against the road. The First Shield was not at full strength, this was no campaign, but even a half-strength detachment of the Dauntless Vanguard was enough to draw the wary eyes of villagers and farmers they passed.

Children darted from cottage doors to watch them, wide-eyed and whispering, until a stern look from a mother or elder dragged them back indoors. Word of Wrenwall's fall had clearly outpaced them, rippling across the countryside in rumor and fear.

Cithria felt the weight of those eyes as keenly as her armor. Demacia was supposed to stand as the steadfast heart of Valoran, its soldiers as unyielding as the mountains. Yet here they rode to face a threat their people scarcely understood, one that had already left a fortress in ruins.

Her gaze drifted toward the head of the column, where Garen rode at the forefront beside a pair of MageSeekers in their heavy petricite harness. Between them, silent as stone, strode the half-dragon.

Shyvana's presence always drew stares, even from soldiers who had long since grown used to her in their ranks. Her reddish purple skin glinted faintly in the afternoon light, a living reminder of the strangeness, that Demacia had chosen to accept. She rode not on horseback but on foot, keeping pace with the column without effort, her halberd slung across her back like a banner of war. Not that she needed it anyway.

The DragonGuard had joined their company, few miles out of the great city, and into the foothills. More than a score of them, clad in shining red and gold armour, a sharp contrast to the vanguard's silver and blue.

Cithria had never spoken more than a few words to her, but she had seen the looks the Dragon Guard gave their commander when they thought her back was turned. Respect. Loyalty.

Eben Hess's voice cut the air again, though quieter now, more thoughtful than angry.
"You ever think, Morn, that maybe we're not being sent to assess anything at all?"

Morn arched a brow, her silence inviting him to continue.

"That if this mage really is as strong as the reports say, we're not here to judge them… we're here to end them."

The words hung heavy between them, swallowed only by the steady march of hooves.

"I mean think about it. The vanguard, the MageSeekers, and the DragonGuard. For just one guy. I know orders are orders, but what exactly are we expecting to be facing?"

Morn shrugged although, Cithria was certain that she was seriously thinking through Hess' words. "If he's so powerful that no one could apprehend him. Then he should have escaped on his own by now, shouldn't he? I doubt anyone could hold him. But if he's still waiting, then perhaps there's something to the reports after all."

Cithria tightened her grip on Cloudfield's reins. She wanted to believe that. She had to believe that.

Because ahead, rising on the horizon, the blackened silhouette of Wrenwall's ruined towers was beginning to cut through the haze of distance.

 

[SaberGlory]

Because ahead, rising on the horizon, the blacken

Click to shrink...

So while I'm new here, this is not my first fanfic. I'm actually cross posting from spacebattles. A reader mentioned that I would get more response from this site than at S.B.
I'm with criticism as long as it's helpful.

 

[Djukez]

I like the premise, looking forward for more

 

[SaberGlory]

The road bent, and Wrenwall rose before them.

Cithria felt her throat dry at the sight. The proud fortress that had stood as a border watch for generations now bore scars that no catapult nor ram could have carved. Its western wall still held strong, but the eastern towers were shattered, as if something had reached down from the sky and plucked stone from its crown.

Patches of ice gleamed across the broken ramparts, white sheets catching the last of the sun. Here and there jagged peaks of frozen crystal jutted like cruel thorns from the earth, piercing through collapsed masonry. The air itself seemed to hold a chill, unnatural for the season, and Cloudfield stamped uneasily as they drew closer.

The gates hung open. Although it wasn't destroyed, just broken in their hinges, as though forced from within.

"By the Light…" someone muttered behind her.

Cithria followed the sound. It was Hess, slack-jawed for once, his usual bluster gone. Alys Morn rode beside him, her sharp eyes scanning every ruined parapet. For all her calm, Cithria saw her grip tighten on the reins.

The rest of the Vanguard kept formation, sixteen riders with shields upon their backs, spears gleaming faintly. Discipline steadied them, though every one of them could see what she saw: magic had been here, wild and unrestrained.

Closer still, and the smell reached them. Not death, thank the Light, but a sharpness like frozen iron, biting at the nose. The villagers outside the walls watched from a distance, whispering, their gazes flicking between the soldiers and the castle in a time that she couldn't decipher.

"Stay sharp," Captain Garen's voice rang clear. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, eyes locked ahead. "The report said no lives lost, but until we confirm, we take no chances."

Shyvana walked at his side, her armored boots crunching through a patch of frost. The cold seemed not to touch her. Her gaze swept the ruined towers with a hard, unreadable expression.

The hooves of their steeds echoed hollow against the stone causeway as the Vanguard passed beneath the ruined gates.

Within, the castle courtyard bore the marks of battle and sorcery both. Cobblestones were cracked by frozen spikes, shattered carts lay abandoned where they had been overturned, and sections of the inner wall were slick with lingering frost. Yet, amidst the wreckage, the blue and silver of Demacia still stood. Soldiers in battered armor formed ranks to meet them, spears planted firmly into the ground.

One stepped forward and raised a clenched fist to his chest. "Dauntless Vanguard. We are honored by your presence."

"Report," Garen commanded, halting his steed.

The man, an officer by his cloak and sigil, bowed his head once. "The situation is contained, Commander. The townsfolk live. We have secured the keep and await your command. Knight-Commander Alric holds counsel within. He expected your arrival."

"Lead us."

The officer turned, and the soldiers parted, saluting as the Vanguard rode through their ranks. Cithria felt the eyes of the garrison upon them, expecting the looks of exhausted men and women who bore the look of survivors, not victors. What she saw was the exact opposite, they looked surprised at their arrival, some even excited.

Wasn't there a battle here? The marks and destruction proved so.

They dismounted before the keep, handing their reins to squires. Cithria gave Cloudfield a quiet pat, the stallion still restless from the lingering cold. Together they followed Garen and Shyvana inside.

The great hall of Wrenwall had fared little better. Icicles hung from the rafters, dripping slowly into puddles on the stone floor. Fires burned low in braziers, fighting the unnatural chill, their smoke rising toward cracked beams above.

At the far end stood Knight-Commander Alric Wrenford. His armor bore fresh dents, his cloak frosted at the edges, but his posture was as unbending as the fortress he commanded. At his side, a great warhammer leaned against the dais, rimmed with frost not yet melted.

"Commander Crownguard," Alric greeted, voice heavy with fatigue but firm with discipline. "You honor us with your arrival." His gaze swept the hall, lingering on the Vanguard's shields.

He stepped down from the dais, clasping Garen's arm in the warrior's grip.

"Your men look well," Garen said, releasing Alric's arm. His voice carried not just approval, but surprise. "Better than I'd expected from the reports."

Alric's mouth pulled into the faintest line of grim humor. "We are fortunate, Commander. More fortunate than we deserve." He gestured broadly toward the hall. "The stones may be cracked, the gates broken, but my people yet live. For that, I give thanks."

Cithria caught the slight dip of his shoulders as he said it, the weight of someone who had walked the ramparts after the chaos and counted heads, fearing the worst.

"The Vanguard salutes your defense," Garen answered, raising his fist to his chest. The soldiers behind him mirrored the motion in a ripple of steel and leather. Cithria included.

Alric returned the salute, then motioned to a nearby table. Upon it lay a scattering of maps and reports, parchment weighed down by stones of frost still clinging to their edges. "We have compiled what we could," Alric said, his tone tightening. "The damage was localized to the fortress itself. The village outside saw little more than falling debris. No casualties save for one, a mage, already dead before we reached them."

Alys Morn leaned subtly toward Cithria, her lips moving without sound, Already dead? Cithria gave the slightest nod.

Alric continued. "The survivor… did not flee. He dispatched his opponent, and then remained here. When the MageSeekers attempted to bind him, he resisted, but without bloodshed. No man was slain, though many were… humbled." His voice held the faintest rasp of humiliation, though it was buried beneath his rigid formality.

Garen's brow furrowed as he scanned the maps. "And the ice?"

"A byproduct of their clash, so our men tell it. We found no sigils, no residue of spellwork beyond the frost itself. The keep's masons swear it will hold through the thaw, but…" Alric glanced up, his expression grave. "I have never seen magic of such scale wielded so easily. The reports you read, Commander, they were written with care, but they do not capture the… inevitability of it. He fought as though we could not touch him. And truth be told, we could not."

The admission rang through the hall like a hammer striking stone. Even the fire seemed to crackle softer.

Shyvana's arms crossed over her chest, scales glinting faintly in the torchlight. "You believe he intended no harm, then?"

Alric hesitated. His gaze swept the room as though weighing the ears around him. Finally, he said, "He waits still in the courtyard. Not as a prisoner though, he's made that much clear. He claims he will not move until he has been heard."

Garen exchanged a glance with Shyvana, then turned back to Alric. His hand rested lightly on the table's edge, fingers brushing against the frost-stained maps. "You've done well, Knight-Commander. Now take me to him."

Alric inclined his head. "As you command."

Alric turned, his cloak brushing across the stone floor as he gestured for them to follow. The Vanguard fell into step behind Garen, their boots a steady rhythm against the cold stone. The keep's corridors bore the same scars as the walls outside, splintered beams, frozen cracks spidering along mortar, the occasional jag of ice jutting like a blade from the floor. Torches sputtered low against the damp chill.

They emerged once more into the open air, stepping down broad stone steps that led into the courtyard proper.

Clack!

The sharp crack of wood rang from ahead, carrying across the stone hall. Garen's brow furrowed, and he turned his gaze toward Alric in silent question.

The Knight-Commander had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. "Ah. That would be him. Since his arrival three days ago, the mage has taken to the courtyard at dawn… to train."

Garen slowed, and so did the Vanguard behind him, Cithria among them. A ripple of unease passed through the column. Training was not the word she expected.

"Train?" Garen's voice was low, even, but edged with suspicion.

Alric gave a weary nod.

"His sorcery?" Hess growled, leaning forward as though ready to snuff the answer out himself.

"Goodness, no," Alric replied quickly, shaking his head. "We were spared that particular misfortune."

Cithria blinked, confusion stirring in her chest. If not sorcery, then what? Wouldn't the MageSeekers want to see his craft, to study it, to seize upon weaknesses?

Alric's sigh was heavy, as though he had explained this more times than he cared to count. "According to the man I assigned to watch him, he rises before dawn, and for three hours he does nothing but push himself through… exercises. Fifty thousand push-ups. Fifty thousand sit-ups. Fifty thousand handstand push-ups. Fifty thousand squats."

Cithria's jaw nearly went slack. She recoiled despite herself, and she wasn't alone. Even Garen's expression shifted, stiff, unsettled, as if such excess struck him as unnatural.

'Why,' Cithria thought, aghast, 'would anyone put themselves through that? And what soldier could gain from such strain?'

Alric went on, his tone almost flat with resignation. "We thought the same. Then one of ours, Light forgive him, because I know I won't, mentioned our Demacian regiment. The mage lit up at the sound of it, as though we had handed him treasure. From then on he added to his madness, hours of hauling boulders while training, running the walls of Wrenwall fourteen times with half a quarry on his back. And when the day ends, he does not rest."

He gestured faintly toward the open courtyard beyond. "Evenings, he takes up his blades. Sparring. First alone, then with my men. And they… enjoy it. Enough that more join him each night. By now, half the garrison takes turns crossing swords with him, and he welcomes them all. He seems tireless."

Alric's eyes looked suddenly older, as though the weight of his words pressed down on him. "I've commanded men through sieges, seen them bleed and break. But I've never seen a soul burn with so much raw, ceaseless energy. Not once."

The hall fell into quiet, save for the echo of another clack from beyond the doors.

The great doors to the courtyard groaned as they pushed open, spilling pale light and the sound of rhythm into the keep's shadow.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The noise struck with a steady tempo, wood against wood, like a war-drum played by a single hand. As they stepped out, the source became clear.

In the heart of the courtyard, surrounded by a wide circle of armored soldiers, a lone figure moved with blinding speed. His body bent and twisted in impossible rhythm, blades flashing arcs of wood against a wooden sword wielded by one of Alric's men. The soldier strained with both hands, sweat pouring, his footing sliding against the frosted cobblestones. But the stranger did not falter, not even slowing down.

Each strike landed with enough force to rattle the courtyard walls. Each parry answered with such exactness that even Garen's trained eye struggled to follow. And when the soldier's knees finally buckled, his weapon knocked skyward, the mage caught the falling sword in one hand and returned it to him with a nod, as though the clash had been nothing more than a morning stretch.

Cithria felt her throat tighten. It was not just the skill, it was the ease. No panting. No ragged sweat. His chest barely rose, as though the exertion had been less than a walk across the hall.

The mage turned then, catching sight of them.

He was younger than she expected. Rough ashen white hair, sharp green eyes that seemed to pierce without malice, and a frame packed with just as much bulk as Garen. His garments were odd, a black cloak, ragged and torn at the edges, covered his white shirt. His trouses were a thick brown and his boot were the same.

Apart from the wooden sword in his hand, he didn't seem to have any other weapon on him. Of course, as a mage, he probably didn't need them. Cithria did notice the book on his hip, placed in a sachel.

The soldiers around him straightened quickly, saluting upon noticing Garen and the vanguard.

Garen stepped forward, his shadow stretching long across the frost-stained stones. The weight of his presence drew silence from the garrison.

"You are the one they call Asta," Garen said, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

Cithria raised an eyebrow, though only in the quiet of her mind. When exactly had the Sword-Captain learned the mage's name?

The man before them lowered his blade with a practiced ease, letting it rest at his side. His movements held no trace of fear, no hesitation, even when standing before the much taller Garen. The difference in height was clear, yet the mage's build was nearly as imposing. Cithria caught herself wondering if, perhaps, he might even carry more muscle than the Sword-Captain himself.

"I am," the stranger said at last, his tone steady, almost casual. "Asta Silver. You're definitely not like the others. Who exactly am I speaking to?"

"I am Garen Crownguard, of House Crownguard. Sword-Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard, and the Might of Demacia," Garen declared, his voice carrying the weight of command. At his words, Cithria found herself instinctively standing straighter, pride stirring in her chest.

"Woah," Asta murmured, his expression shifting into one of open awe. "That's a lot of titles. You must have earned many merits."

'You couldn't even begin to imagine,' Cithria thought, her heart swelling with quiet pride for her commander.

 

[trashtaker]

The ultimate anti-magic arrives in the most anti-magic xenophobic nation

 

[Djukez]

I do wonder how they will react to all the different types of magic Asta's world has and how powerful the people in his world are

 

[SaberGlory]

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."

 

[trashtaker]

Demacians are such hypocrites man.

Garen being able to literal summon a big ass sword shouldn't complain about magic much less Asta's big black co-

 

[ThePoroKing]

Peak.