ThePoroKing
The Fluffiest of Them All
- Joined
- Dec 24, 2023
- Messages
- 381
- Likes received
- 2,368
Most stories that gets reaction in this site are the ones in the NSFW catalogue. Post this story in Webnovel and it'll probably pop.
-
An addendum to Rule 3 regarding fan-translated works of things such as Web Novels has been made. Please see here for details.
-
We've issued a clarification on our policy on AI-generated work.
-
Our mod selection process has completed. Please welcome our new moderators.
-
Due to issues with external spam filters, QQ is currently unable to send any mail to Microsoft E-mail addresses. This includes any account at live.com, hotmail.com or msn.com. Signing up to the forum with one of these addresses will result in your verification E-mail never arriving. For best results, please use a different E-mail provider for your QQ address.
-
The rules regarding NSFW links have been updated. See here for details.
Flaw Of RuneTerra (Black Clover X League Of Legends)
- Thread starter SaberGlory
- Start date
trashtaker
The (un)lucky Patreon Saint of borrowed fortune
- Joined
- Jan 23, 2023
- Messages
- 4,767
- Likes received
- 81,687
Well that explains a lot. Wordsmith, you could post this on NSFW sections and it would blow up m8.
Lots of stories there aren't even NSFW to begin with.
ThePoroKing
The Fluffiest of Them All
- Joined
- Dec 24, 2023
- Messages
- 381
- Likes received
- 2,368
Porn with plot. Sometimes they rush relationships sometimes not. Also NSFW could pertain to having disturbing content like gore.
SaberGlory
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- Dec 26, 2025
- Messages
- 32
- Likes received
- 231
I do plan on having two members of the black bulls arriving in Demacia some time in the future, but that's the limit.
Chapter Twenty Six
New
SaberGlory
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- Dec 26, 2025
- Messages
- 32
- Likes received
- 231
Darryl tightened his grip on his short sword, shifting lightly to the side. This was his first time sparring with the captain since awakening to Ki, and considering he had only fully grasped it that very morning, the nervous flutter in his chest felt justified.
Across from him, Asta drew his katana. The blackened edge caught the light in a way that sent a sharp warning through Darryl's instincts. His Ki sense surged to maximum, overlapping with his earth sense.
He could feel every vibration Asta produced through the ground, each subtle shift of weight. But beyond that? Nothing. A strange void swallowed any deeper readings.
So he focused. Ki sharpened around his captain's presence, the flex of muscle beneath cloth, the micro-adjustments in his stance, even the faint disturbance in the air around him.
"So…" Asta's voice came from behind.
Immediately, Darryl spun instinctively, sword rising to block.
Clang!
Asta's katana crashed down on his short sword, the force driving him toward the floor. "I saw you speaking with Garen after the attack on the MageSeeker headquarters."
Darryl grunted and kicked off the ground, leaping back in an attempt to widen the distance.
A futile attempt.
Asta vanished again, but this time, Darryl was ready. The moment he sensed the shift behind him, he softened the earth there, turning solid ground into a loose, liquid-like trap.
Even then, the captain's strike tore through his guard.
His senses flared in warning a split second too late.
"Gah!"
The impact blasted him off his feet. Darryl sailed backward and slammed into a training dummy, shattering it into splinters as he hit the ground with a rough gasp.
"Did you know that if you run fast enough, you can run across water?" Asta said casually, resting his katana on his shoulder as though they weren't in the middle of a spar. "Anyway… what did Garen tell you?"
Darryl's gaze dropped for a brief moment, just long enough to hide the twist of unease in his expression, before he forced himself back onto his feet. He knew exactly what Asta meant. And even now, he wasn't sure how to feel.
When he'd slammed the assassin into the ground with enough force to crack stone, it hadn't occurred to him that the man wouldn't survive it.
The assassin had been strong, strong enough that Darryl assumed he could withstand the blow. But he was wrong. The impact had split the man's skull, and then Darryl had sealed him into the earth to restrain him.
By the time they unsealed the ground, the assassin had already bled out.
Darryl had taken a life. He had killed someone.
He knew he'd needed to seal the man or risk another attack. Anyone would have. But because of that choice, none of them realized how badly the assassin was bleeding.
He remembered the moment they pulled the body out, the pale skin, the lifeless stare. His stomach had churned violently, and he'd barely managed to turn away before vomiting.
Afterward, Garen had pulled him aside to congratulate him. To praise him. He told Darryl he'd done the right thing. That he'd acted exactly as a true Demacian should, as a protector of the realm.
Darryl had confessed, voice shaking, that he felt like he had murdered someone in cold blood.
Garen had only laughed, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. He said that as long as it was in defense of the people of Demacia, it was justice. That Darryl was a hero.
But Darryl didn't feel like a hero.
This time, Asta charged forward, and Darryl could see him coming. His captain was holding back, moving just a little slower than usual. Giving him a chance.
Darryl didn't waste it. He surged forward as well.
Steel met steel as he parried the tip of Asta's katana, then immediately tried to slip in a cut across his captain's chest. But Asta shifted his grip in one smooth motion, reversing the katana mid-swing and using the same blade tip to deflect the strike.
Darryl blinked in surprise at the sudden change of technique, but his instincts carried him through. He felt the incoming kick a heartbeat before it came and stepped back to avoid it, then retreated even farther as Asta followed up with a sweeping leg strike meant to take him off his feet.
"He called me a hero," Darryl answered at last, breath steadying as he reset his stance. "Said I did the right thing."
He never got to see Asta move.
He only felt the sudden spike in pressure, the shadow dropping over him, and then he had to raise his sword as quickly as possible.
Boom!
The impact shook the yard, dust and loose dirt lifting off the ground as Darryl barely managed to intercept the overhead strike. Mana surged through his veins, reinforcing muscles and bones as he pushed up against his captain's strength. The earth groaned beneath them, cracking and turning uneven from the sheer force.
"I did the right thing… didn't I?" Darryl asked, voice trembling despite the effort he put into holding his ground.
He sensed rather than saw Asta's left hand draw back, reaching toward him. Darryl's mind raced. If he dodged the hand, Asta's blade would follow through and send him flying. But if he stayed… he could maybe endure the grab.
The blade was more dangerous than Asta's hand, right?
He was wrong.
"That depends," Asta said calmly.
His hand clamped onto Darryl's shirt. In one fluid motion, Asta twisted, pivoted, and launched him, hurling Darryl hundreds of feet into the sky like a stone from a catapult.
Air rushed past his ears. Vertigo hit him a second later.
Forcing himself to focus, Darryl reached behind him and grabbed the three short poles strapped together at the ends. With a firm pull on the first and last segments, mana surged through the joints. The poles snapped outward, extending into a single long staff.
His flying staff.
Straddling it midair, Darryl steadied his breathing, the staff humming beneath him as it caught the wind. He leveled himself out, rising to a hover, and immediately fixed his eyes back on Asta below.
The spar wasn't over. Not even close.
Asta looked up at him with an easy smile, hands loose at his sides. "Alright, then," he called up. "Why did you do it?"
"I fought him because he was going to kill everyone," Darryl answered, trying to keep his voice steady as the wind tugged at him. "I trapped him because I didn't want him to hurt anyone again."
Asta nodded once. "But then he went and died."
He bent his knees, and Darryl immediately knew that he would he reach him in an instant.
Darryl shot upward just in time, rocketing higher into the sky.
"I never meant to kill him!" he called down. "I didn't know..."
He didn't get to finish.
Asta blurred upward in a flash, appearing above him like a dark streak against the sun, and kicked him down with a thunderclap.
Boom!
Darryl plummeted like a stone, smashing into the dirt and then through it, his body carving a rough crater as he bounced, skidding and crashing through a second patch of ground before slamming into the stone perimeter wall. The shock rattled his bones.
A normal human would've been paste.
But Darryl wasn't normal anymore. Mana reinforcement meant that he was far tougher than normal. He was a Black Bull now.
Asta landed in a crouch right in front of him, dust billowing around his feet.
"But he died anyway," Asta said, voice gentler but still firm. "And you wanted to save him. Even after he tried to kill you. Even after he went after Emilia and the prisoners. Even after he took your eyes."
Darryl's face folded into shame and he dropped his gazebut Asta didn't let him.
A rough, calloused hand nudged his chin back up. "Hey. No. That's not something to be ashamed of."
"It… isn't?" Darryl blinked at him, confused. "But I'm a magic knight now. Knights fight monsters and villains. All the great heroes have killed tons of monsters and bad guys."
Asta raised one eyebrow, almost amused.
"Then by that logic," he asked, "how many monsters and bad guys do you think I've killed?"
Darryl opened his mouth, unsure what answer Asta was even looking for. Hundreds? Thousands? Asta was so strong, and had to have gotten that strong from constant battles.
But something in Asta's tone made it clear that any number he picked would be wrong.
"A thousand?" Still Darryl tried to answer.
Asta shook his head slowly, as though genuinely baffled. "What do you take me for, kid? I'd be worried if I'd killed that many people. I'm barely even in the double digits." He pointed his katana at Darryl, not threateningly, more like he was using it as a stick to emphasize his point. "What exactly counts as a hero around here? What are they teaching you guys?"
Darryl stared at him, confusion plain on his face. "But… how? You've been through so many battles. You've said so yourself."
"Oh, I have," Asta admitted, returning his katana with an easy motion. "Plenty of battles. Plenty of idiots trying to take my head off. But if it's at all possible not to kill someone… then I won't." He shrugged, almost sheepishly. "Honestly, a lot of my friends used to be people who tried to kill me first."
Darryl blinked. "Really?"
Asta grinned. "Yup. Happens more often than you'd think." Then his voice softened, losing none of its firmness. "Listen. There's nothing wrong with feeling how you feel. Guilt… regret… wanting to save someone even when they've hurt you. That's not weakness."
He crouched down so they were on eye level, something Darryl noticed he always did when he wanted to be understood clearly. Dust floated around them, settling slowly in the crater Darryl's fall had created.
"But here's the truth," Asta continued. "Right now, you're not strong enough to save both your allies and your enemies. I wish the world worked that way. I really do." His smile faded into something quieter, gentler. "But it doesn't. Not for us."
He tapped two fingers against Darryl's chest, right over his heart. "You're headed that way, though. And that's not something to be ashamed of."
Darryl nodded, placing his hand over his chest, over where Asta had touched. Then he smiled. "Then I'll just become strong enough."
"That's what I'm talking about kid." Asta slapped him on the shoulder. "Surpass your limits."
---
Darryl stared ahead with wide eyes as the great city of Demacia burned in the distance, smoke curling into the sky in thick, dark columns. Even from where they stood, the heat of the flames licked at the air.
"What in the actual heck?" Asta muttered beside him, sounding just as bewildered as Darryl felt.
"They're bolder than I expected," Emilia said, her tone carrying a hint of amused disbelief. "To attack the city two days in a row… even after running into you yesterday. I never imagined Sylas would be this foolish."
"Does he think he can beat the captain?" Darryl asked, brow furrowing.
Asta snorted, while Emilia tapped a finger thoughtfully against her chin. "Perhaps he believes he has some method of accomplishing that. Who knows how lesser-minded men justify their decisions?"
"Well, whatever's going through his head, we can't let this go on any longer." Asta stepped forward, drawing the Demon-Slayer sword with a metallic whisper. "Emilia, you and Darryl will pair up. Mira..."
He turned to the fifteen-year-old girl standing a few steps behind them, her hands twisting nervously in her sleeves.
"You'll stay here for now."
Emilia arched a brow. "Are you sure that's wise?"
Asta glanced her way. "What do you mean?"
"Mages are attacking the city," Emilia explained evenly. "And in chaos like this, distinguishing friend from foe becomes difficult. Especially with Demacian guards who already hold a prejudice against us." Her eyes drifted to Mira. "Some of them may get… overly enthusiastic in their attempt to 'defend' the city. Even if the person they're swinging at is a young girl who can't fight back. Mages are the enemy after all."
Mira's eyes widened as the weight of Emilia's words settled in. Darryl looked just as shaken, his brows knitting together in quiet worry.
Asta's expression darkened. "This really has to stop already," he muttered, exhaling through his nose. "Alright. New plan."
He turned to the girl. "Mira, you're coming with me. We'll work on your magic as we move."
Then he looked to his other two teammates. "Emilia, you and Darryl are still paired up. Focus on the outer edges of the city. There'll be civilians out there who need help."
Darryl nodded immediately, already pulling out the folded segments of his flying staff. "Got it, captain." He snapped it open with a practiced twist. "Come on, Emilia."
Emilia didn't waste time, slipping onto the staff behind him. A moment later, they blasted into the air, their departure stirring up a gust of wind and loose dust.
Once they were gone, Asta turned back to Mira, lowering his Demon-Slayer sword until it hovered horizontally over the ground like a floating platform.
"So," he asked, motioning for her to climb on, "what kind of magic do you use?"
Mira hesitated, her fingers fidgeting before she reached out and took his hand, stepping onto the hovering blade with timid care.
"Well…" she mumbled, cheeks warming, "I… can make pumpkins."
She looked almost apologetic as she said it.
Asta blinked. "Pumpkins?"
Mira nodded, shrinking a bit. "Big ones… small ones… sometimes weird ones. That's… mostly it."
Asta stared for a beat longer, then grinned.
Across from him, Asta drew his katana. The blackened edge caught the light in a way that sent a sharp warning through Darryl's instincts. His Ki sense surged to maximum, overlapping with his earth sense.
He could feel every vibration Asta produced through the ground, each subtle shift of weight. But beyond that? Nothing. A strange void swallowed any deeper readings.
So he focused. Ki sharpened around his captain's presence, the flex of muscle beneath cloth, the micro-adjustments in his stance, even the faint disturbance in the air around him.
"So…" Asta's voice came from behind.
Immediately, Darryl spun instinctively, sword rising to block.
Clang!
Asta's katana crashed down on his short sword, the force driving him toward the floor. "I saw you speaking with Garen after the attack on the MageSeeker headquarters."
Darryl grunted and kicked off the ground, leaping back in an attempt to widen the distance.
A futile attempt.
Asta vanished again, but this time, Darryl was ready. The moment he sensed the shift behind him, he softened the earth there, turning solid ground into a loose, liquid-like trap.
Even then, the captain's strike tore through his guard.
His senses flared in warning a split second too late.
"Gah!"
The impact blasted him off his feet. Darryl sailed backward and slammed into a training dummy, shattering it into splinters as he hit the ground with a rough gasp.
"Did you know that if you run fast enough, you can run across water?" Asta said casually, resting his katana on his shoulder as though they weren't in the middle of a spar. "Anyway… what did Garen tell you?"
Darryl's gaze dropped for a brief moment, just long enough to hide the twist of unease in his expression, before he forced himself back onto his feet. He knew exactly what Asta meant. And even now, he wasn't sure how to feel.
When he'd slammed the assassin into the ground with enough force to crack stone, it hadn't occurred to him that the man wouldn't survive it.
The assassin had been strong, strong enough that Darryl assumed he could withstand the blow. But he was wrong. The impact had split the man's skull, and then Darryl had sealed him into the earth to restrain him.
By the time they unsealed the ground, the assassin had already bled out.
Darryl had taken a life. He had killed someone.
He knew he'd needed to seal the man or risk another attack. Anyone would have. But because of that choice, none of them realized how badly the assassin was bleeding.
He remembered the moment they pulled the body out, the pale skin, the lifeless stare. His stomach had churned violently, and he'd barely managed to turn away before vomiting.
Afterward, Garen had pulled him aside to congratulate him. To praise him. He told Darryl he'd done the right thing. That he'd acted exactly as a true Demacian should, as a protector of the realm.
Darryl had confessed, voice shaking, that he felt like he had murdered someone in cold blood.
Garen had only laughed, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. He said that as long as it was in defense of the people of Demacia, it was justice. That Darryl was a hero.
But Darryl didn't feel like a hero.
This time, Asta charged forward, and Darryl could see him coming. His captain was holding back, moving just a little slower than usual. Giving him a chance.
Darryl didn't waste it. He surged forward as well.
Steel met steel as he parried the tip of Asta's katana, then immediately tried to slip in a cut across his captain's chest. But Asta shifted his grip in one smooth motion, reversing the katana mid-swing and using the same blade tip to deflect the strike.
Darryl blinked in surprise at the sudden change of technique, but his instincts carried him through. He felt the incoming kick a heartbeat before it came and stepped back to avoid it, then retreated even farther as Asta followed up with a sweeping leg strike meant to take him off his feet.
"He called me a hero," Darryl answered at last, breath steadying as he reset his stance. "Said I did the right thing."
He never got to see Asta move.
He only felt the sudden spike in pressure, the shadow dropping over him, and then he had to raise his sword as quickly as possible.
Boom!
The impact shook the yard, dust and loose dirt lifting off the ground as Darryl barely managed to intercept the overhead strike. Mana surged through his veins, reinforcing muscles and bones as he pushed up against his captain's strength. The earth groaned beneath them, cracking and turning uneven from the sheer force.
"I did the right thing… didn't I?" Darryl asked, voice trembling despite the effort he put into holding his ground.
He sensed rather than saw Asta's left hand draw back, reaching toward him. Darryl's mind raced. If he dodged the hand, Asta's blade would follow through and send him flying. But if he stayed… he could maybe endure the grab.
The blade was more dangerous than Asta's hand, right?
He was wrong.
"That depends," Asta said calmly.
His hand clamped onto Darryl's shirt. In one fluid motion, Asta twisted, pivoted, and launched him, hurling Darryl hundreds of feet into the sky like a stone from a catapult.
Air rushed past his ears. Vertigo hit him a second later.
Forcing himself to focus, Darryl reached behind him and grabbed the three short poles strapped together at the ends. With a firm pull on the first and last segments, mana surged through the joints. The poles snapped outward, extending into a single long staff.
His flying staff.
Straddling it midair, Darryl steadied his breathing, the staff humming beneath him as it caught the wind. He leveled himself out, rising to a hover, and immediately fixed his eyes back on Asta below.
The spar wasn't over. Not even close.
Asta looked up at him with an easy smile, hands loose at his sides. "Alright, then," he called up. "Why did you do it?"
"I fought him because he was going to kill everyone," Darryl answered, trying to keep his voice steady as the wind tugged at him. "I trapped him because I didn't want him to hurt anyone again."
Asta nodded once. "But then he went and died."
He bent his knees, and Darryl immediately knew that he would he reach him in an instant.
Darryl shot upward just in time, rocketing higher into the sky.
"I never meant to kill him!" he called down. "I didn't know..."
He didn't get to finish.
Asta blurred upward in a flash, appearing above him like a dark streak against the sun, and kicked him down with a thunderclap.
Boom!
Darryl plummeted like a stone, smashing into the dirt and then through it, his body carving a rough crater as he bounced, skidding and crashing through a second patch of ground before slamming into the stone perimeter wall. The shock rattled his bones.
A normal human would've been paste.
But Darryl wasn't normal anymore. Mana reinforcement meant that he was far tougher than normal. He was a Black Bull now.
Asta landed in a crouch right in front of him, dust billowing around his feet.
"But he died anyway," Asta said, voice gentler but still firm. "And you wanted to save him. Even after he tried to kill you. Even after he went after Emilia and the prisoners. Even after he took your eyes."
Darryl's face folded into shame and he dropped his gazebut Asta didn't let him.
A rough, calloused hand nudged his chin back up. "Hey. No. That's not something to be ashamed of."
"It… isn't?" Darryl blinked at him, confused. "But I'm a magic knight now. Knights fight monsters and villains. All the great heroes have killed tons of monsters and bad guys."
Asta raised one eyebrow, almost amused.
"Then by that logic," he asked, "how many monsters and bad guys do you think I've killed?"
Darryl opened his mouth, unsure what answer Asta was even looking for. Hundreds? Thousands? Asta was so strong, and had to have gotten that strong from constant battles.
But something in Asta's tone made it clear that any number he picked would be wrong.
"A thousand?" Still Darryl tried to answer.
Asta shook his head slowly, as though genuinely baffled. "What do you take me for, kid? I'd be worried if I'd killed that many people. I'm barely even in the double digits." He pointed his katana at Darryl, not threateningly, more like he was using it as a stick to emphasize his point. "What exactly counts as a hero around here? What are they teaching you guys?"
Darryl stared at him, confusion plain on his face. "But… how? You've been through so many battles. You've said so yourself."
"Oh, I have," Asta admitted, returning his katana with an easy motion. "Plenty of battles. Plenty of idiots trying to take my head off. But if it's at all possible not to kill someone… then I won't." He shrugged, almost sheepishly. "Honestly, a lot of my friends used to be people who tried to kill me first."
Darryl blinked. "Really?"
Asta grinned. "Yup. Happens more often than you'd think." Then his voice softened, losing none of its firmness. "Listen. There's nothing wrong with feeling how you feel. Guilt… regret… wanting to save someone even when they've hurt you. That's not weakness."
He crouched down so they were on eye level, something Darryl noticed he always did when he wanted to be understood clearly. Dust floated around them, settling slowly in the crater Darryl's fall had created.
"But here's the truth," Asta continued. "Right now, you're not strong enough to save both your allies and your enemies. I wish the world worked that way. I really do." His smile faded into something quieter, gentler. "But it doesn't. Not for us."
He tapped two fingers against Darryl's chest, right over his heart. "You're headed that way, though. And that's not something to be ashamed of."
Darryl nodded, placing his hand over his chest, over where Asta had touched. Then he smiled. "Then I'll just become strong enough."
"That's what I'm talking about kid." Asta slapped him on the shoulder. "Surpass your limits."
---
Darryl stared ahead with wide eyes as the great city of Demacia burned in the distance, smoke curling into the sky in thick, dark columns. Even from where they stood, the heat of the flames licked at the air.
"What in the actual heck?" Asta muttered beside him, sounding just as bewildered as Darryl felt.
"They're bolder than I expected," Emilia said, her tone carrying a hint of amused disbelief. "To attack the city two days in a row… even after running into you yesterday. I never imagined Sylas would be this foolish."
"Does he think he can beat the captain?" Darryl asked, brow furrowing.
Asta snorted, while Emilia tapped a finger thoughtfully against her chin. "Perhaps he believes he has some method of accomplishing that. Who knows how lesser-minded men justify their decisions?"
"Well, whatever's going through his head, we can't let this go on any longer." Asta stepped forward, drawing the Demon-Slayer sword with a metallic whisper. "Emilia, you and Darryl will pair up. Mira..."
He turned to the fifteen-year-old girl standing a few steps behind them, her hands twisting nervously in her sleeves.
"You'll stay here for now."
Emilia arched a brow. "Are you sure that's wise?"
Asta glanced her way. "What do you mean?"
"Mages are attacking the city," Emilia explained evenly. "And in chaos like this, distinguishing friend from foe becomes difficult. Especially with Demacian guards who already hold a prejudice against us." Her eyes drifted to Mira. "Some of them may get… overly enthusiastic in their attempt to 'defend' the city. Even if the person they're swinging at is a young girl who can't fight back. Mages are the enemy after all."
Mira's eyes widened as the weight of Emilia's words settled in. Darryl looked just as shaken, his brows knitting together in quiet worry.
Asta's expression darkened. "This really has to stop already," he muttered, exhaling through his nose. "Alright. New plan."
He turned to the girl. "Mira, you're coming with me. We'll work on your magic as we move."
Then he looked to his other two teammates. "Emilia, you and Darryl are still paired up. Focus on the outer edges of the city. There'll be civilians out there who need help."
Darryl nodded immediately, already pulling out the folded segments of his flying staff. "Got it, captain." He snapped it open with a practiced twist. "Come on, Emilia."
Emilia didn't waste time, slipping onto the staff behind him. A moment later, they blasted into the air, their departure stirring up a gust of wind and loose dust.
Once they were gone, Asta turned back to Mira, lowering his Demon-Slayer sword until it hovered horizontally over the ground like a floating platform.
"So," he asked, motioning for her to climb on, "what kind of magic do you use?"
Mira hesitated, her fingers fidgeting before she reached out and took his hand, stepping onto the hovering blade with timid care.
"Well…" she mumbled, cheeks warming, "I… can make pumpkins."
She looked almost apologetic as she said it.
Asta blinked. "Pumpkins?"
Mira nodded, shrinking a bit. "Big ones… small ones… sometimes weird ones. That's… mostly it."
Asta stared for a beat longer, then grinned.
Edgar Puente
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
- Joined
- Jul 22, 2020
- Messages
- 1
- Likes received
- 1
I just got to to say I binged this whole story and it's one of the best one's I've read in this site keep up the good work author.
Chapter Twenty Seven
New
SaberGlory
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- Dec 26, 2025
- Messages
- 32
- Likes received
- 231
Mira was afraid. Genuinely, unmistakably afraid. Terror churned in her chest, and even with her back resting against her captain, she still felt the instinctive urge to curl into a ball and hide.
Only yesterday morning she had still been in her cell. And now she was flying toward a battlefield, toward a fight against the very people who had freed her. It was dizzying. It was overwhelming. It was too much.
Even so, Mira didn't regret her decision. She still believed she'd made the right choice by refusing to follow Sylas and his rebels. She had seen what true freedom looked like, she'd seen it in the Black Bulls. She wanted to stay with them. To be part of them. And if that meant she had to fight, even though every part of her screamed that she didn't want to, she would fight.
But as she watched mages and Demacian guards clashing from high above on her captain's floating sword, she couldn't stop one thought from whispering through her mind.
'How am I supposed to do that?'
She felt Captain Asta lean forward slightly, and the sword dipped lower toward the ground. Ahead, the MageSeekers' headquarters loomed into view.
And the entrance… looked exactly like yesterday. Mages and soldiers slaughtering each other with magic and steel, fighting with no rhythm, no mercy, no sense.
Mira shut her eyes for a moment. She could feel the rush of wind against her face as they descended, cold, sharp, carrying the scent of burning stone.
Then everything changed.
In an instant, the sound of battle stopped. The clashing blades. The roaring flames. The grinding earth. The chaos vanished as the world simply… fell silent.
She didn't need to open her eyes to know why.
But when she did, she saw it clearly.
Every soldier. Every rebel mage. Every single person on the ground was staring upward, not at her, though she sat in plain view.
They were staring at the man standing behind her.
The Captain of the Black Bulls.
"You know, I really didn't want to come back to this place so soon," Asta said, irritation threading through his voice. "But you guys have a lot of balls to attack again this quickly after yesterday."
He stepped down from the floating sword first, landing lightly. Mira followed after him, taking his hand as she climbed down. Strangely, no one moved to attack them, not even when Asta paused to steady her.
"So here's what's going to happen," Asta said as he walked past Mira, his sword resting lazily on his shoulder. His eyes were fixed on a green-haired woman tangled in living vines. "You're all going to walk out of here. Quietly. You can return to wherever you came from without getting harassed… or you can stay, and get the worst ass-kicking of your life. Real embarrassing too."
Mira pressed her lips together to hold back a snicker, turning her head slightly so no one would see.
"Sir Asta, what are you talking about?" a guard called out. Mira stiffened when she recognized the armor, broad plates marked with the crest of the Dauntless Vanguard, Demacia's most elite knights.
She would never forget that armor. The Vanguard were the ones who dragged her father away after he fought back against the MageSeekers. She had screamed for him then, begged, but they never let her see him again.
"Letting these traitors go? Surely you jest," the knight said, his tone hopeful, as if expecting Asta to laugh and correct himself. "They attacked the city. Demacia is burning. We can end this right here."
Mira shifted uneasily, her hands clasping each other. She didn't like this tension. It reminded her too much of her father being dragged away in chains.
The green-haired mage tangled in vines spoke up, her eyes sharp. "We aren't surrendering. Not to them." She nodded at the knights, bitterness leaking through every word. "Not after what they've done to us."
Asta didn't look at her. He just asked quietly, "Do you want to fight me, then?"
Silence.
The woman's breath hitched. Her shoulders tensed. But she said nothing.
"Thought so," Asta muttered. He lifted his sword from his shoulder, holding it at his side. The motion was calm.
But the earth vibrated.
Mira saw it, the way the rebels' knees bent instinctively. The way the knights shifted back a step without even realizing it. The way even the air itself seemed to brace.
Asta wasn't releasing magic. He wasn't threatening anyone.
He was simply standing there in front of everyone.
And that alone terrified everyone.
Asta planted his sword into the ground with a dull thunk. "Look. I'm not here to babysit anyone. I'm not here to pick sides. I'm here because this is a mess. And if I'm going to be stuck here for the foreseeable future, then this needs to be cleared up."
His eyes locked on the Vanguard knight.
"You want justice? Then stop making things worse."
Then his gaze flicked to the rebels.
"You want freedom? Then stop setting stuff on fire."
He rolled his shoulders once, cracking his neck. "Everyone walks away. Everyone gets to go back home. No one loses their father, or their mother, or sister or loved ones. Let's not create orphans or widows and widowers."
The Vanguard knight grit his teeth. "Sir Asta… these rebels cannot be allowed to simply walk away. They must answer for their crimes."
Asta gave him a flat stare. "And tell me, who's going to answer for yours?"
The knight froze. The entire squad froze. Even the rebels froze.
"Because I've been into that building and buddy, it's taking every ounce of self restraint I have to not to tear this building into shreds." Asta pointed at the entrance to the MageSeekers headquarters. "Don't preach about justice to me."
The knight's knuckles whitened around his spear. For a moment, Mira thought he'd attack. She braced herself instinctively, pumpkins weren't going to save her from that.
But then… slowly… his spear lowered.
The rebels stared. The guards stared. Mira stared.
Asta nodded once. "Good. We're getting somewhere."
Then he jerked his chin toward the rebels. "Go. Get out of here. You got ten minutes before I change my mind."
The green-haired mage blinked in disbelief. "You're… letting us go?"
Asta was already turning away. "Lady, I've got better things to do than smack both sides of this argument across the street. Move."
The rebels exchanged looks, uncertain, confused, but relieved. They began pulling back, some supporting their injured, others dragging those too weak to walk.
Mira watched them leave, a weird feeling in her chest. Her captain had just stopped the entire fight without even having spilled a single blood. This was true freedom.
"You're only doing this..." She heard the Dauntless Vanguard knight speak. "You're only supporting them, because you're a mage. The Sword-Captain will hear this."
Asta paused, turning to face the knight that had spoken.
"All you are is a kid who got his hand on a dangerous curse." The knight finished with grit teeth.
Asta exhaled once, slow and heavy, before he finally looked over his shoulder.
"You done?" he asked.
The Dauntless Vanguard knight straightened, gripping his spear like a lifeline. "It's the truth. You wield cursed power that no mortal should possess. You didn't earn it. You didn't train for it. You stumbled upon something dangerous, and now you throw your weight around like a child."
Mira flinched. The rebels flinched. Even the guards behind him shifted uneasily.
Asta pulled his sword free from the ground with a soft scrape of metal. Mira felt that same ripple in the air as before, an instinctive warning, a pressure like the world bracing for impact.
Still, Asta didn't raise the blade.
He simply walked forward.
And soldiers, elite, armored, proud, stepped back from him without realizing they were doing it.
Asta stopped a few feet in front of the knight and tilted his head slightly. "You think I'm a kid with a curse?"
The knight sneered. "That's exactly what you are."
Asta hummed, almost thoughtfully. "Right. Because you know me. You've fought beside me. You've seen my training. You've watched me bleed for the people I care about. You..."
"What you care about isn't Demacia," the knight snapped. "It's mages. Your kind."
Mira felt like something cold stabbed through her chest. Her fingers curled involuntarily. That wasn't true. It wasn't true at all.
Asta stared at the knight for a long moment before saying, "Ah. Now it makes sense. So you're one of those."
"One of what?" the knight spat.
"One of the people who thinks justice is whatever makes you feel like the good guy."
Silence spread again. Thick and suffocating.
Asta continued, voice steady but sharp. "You say I didn't earn my power. Fine. Maybe. But the difference between us is simple."
He pointed his sword, not at the knight's throat, but down, at the blood-soaked ground.
"I've never had to use my strength to make excuses."
Asta took a slow step forward, and the man stood before him with bravado he obviously didn't have.
"You see a mage, you see a criminal. You see rebellion, you see monsters. You see anyone who doesn't fit in your perfect little kingdom, and you think the world would be better if they were gone."
The knight bristled. "They attacked our city!"
"And your city attacked them first." Asta's voice rose, not in anger, but like someone finally done holding their breath. "I walked through those halls yesterday. I saw corpses chained to those walls."
Several guards looked away.
Asta took another step. "Tell me, where was your justice then?"
The knight swallowed hard. "Those… those are dangerous individuals."
"They were kids." Asta's voice cracked, not loudly, but enough for Mira to feel it. "Kids who never got a chance."
The knight said nothing.
Asta leaned forward just slightly, his eyes narrowed. "Here's the truth. I'm not letting them go because I'm a mage. I'm letting them go because none of you deserved to die today."
He sheathed his sword in one smooth motion.
"And I don't need a kingdom's approval to do the right thing."
The knight trembled, jaw clenched tight. "The Sword-Captain will hear of this."
"Good," Asta said immediately. "I hope he does. Maybe Garen's got more common sense than you."
Asta turned his back on the knight completely and walked toward Mira. "Come on. We've still got half a burning city to put out. And a lot more rebels to convince to stop. I'm going to be doing a lot of shouting it seems."
But behind him, the knight wasn't finished.
"You think this makes you a hero?" he shouted. "You think protecting criminals makes you noble?"
Mira was really starting to get fed up by the knight. He really should know when he was defeated. She saw Asta turn to the sky instead of the knight.
It was then she noticed that the surroundings was a little brighter than earlier. Mira looked up, and a blue fireball the size of a wagon was streaking toward Asta from above the rooftops.
Her eyes widened. "Captain!"
Asta didn't even turn. "Of course."
The fireball hit.
For a moment, the world turned white and blue with a sound that deafened everything.
It took a moment for everything to settle down. When the smoke cleared a second later, Mira's eyes widened with awe.
Asta stood there, completely untouched, one hand raised casually Infront his head, palm open. A small ball of blue fire rested on it, hovering just above it.
The entire battlefield stared in disbelief.
Asta turned the burning sphere in his palm like he was examining a toy. "Alright. Who exactly thought this was a smart idea?"
A figure appeared from the rising smoke on the building top, he seemed to be holding a broom that was surrounded by blue flames. Most notable of all...
He was a kid, around Mira's age, maybe a little older, but his eyes were nothing like hers.
Where Mira's were full of fear and uncertainty, his were burning, swallowed completely by rage and in real time, they changed to something deeper… betrayal.
"So Sylas was right," the boy said, his fists trembling at his sides. "When I heard about you, we were all so excited. A mage in Demacia the MageSeekers couldn't silence. Someone strong enough to do whatever he wanted."
His voice cracked, but the fury never faded.
"But you're just like them in the end. Pretending you're better, when all you're doing is helping the people who tortured us. Who tortured me."
Mira blinked. She had known her captain was strong. Unbelievably strong. But the idea that he could "do whatever he wanted" in Demacia?
Asta didn't respond to the accusation.
Didn't even look bothered.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
"What's your name, kid?"
The boy flinched, as if he hadn't expected the question. He hesitated, then answered with a glare.
"Rukko. Sylas told us to stay away from you. Said you weren't someone we should fight. But I had to know. I had to see for myself."
"You seem disappointed," Asta said with a shrug. "Not like that's my problem what you think about me. You have something against the MageSeekers, well so do I, but I can't allow what you're all doing to continue. For the sake of the innocents that'll get caught up in this. So if you don't mind, it would be really helpful if you could just take the whole rebellion with you and leave."
Rukko growled. "Never. Today is the day when we show Demacia that we mages are no longer afraid..."
Asta moved.
Rukko flinched. Honestly, everyone flinched. Soldiers, rebels, even Mira felt her body jerk in reflex as the anti-magic captain shot forward with alarming speed.
Before Mira could even ask what was happening, Asta snapped his large sword back into the grimoire on his hip. In the same motion he drew another blade, a shorter one, though still long enough to be dangerous, broader than his katana but far lighter than the Demon-Slayer.
Mira barely had time to blink before Asta's hand clamped onto her shoulder and yanked her behind him.
"Captain..?" she started, startled.
But Asta was already turning, already slashing downward with his new blade.
A black wave exploded from the strike, a crescent of void energy that grew wider and deeper as it tore through the ground. The earth screamed as the wave carved a trench so long, Mira couldn't even see where it ended.
A single swing had ripped a trench large enough to swallow half a house.
Gasps rose from every throat.
A slash like that… hadn't been aimed at anyone here.
'Why did he do that…?' Mira thought, and she knew everyone else was thinking the same thing.
Then she noticed it. The trench, the path of destruction, hadn't been perfectly straight. There was a point where the earth crumbled at a slightly different angle, as though the strike had been nudged aside mid-flight.
And the reason appeared as the dust lifted.
A tall figure stepped out of the drifting smoke.
She had pale skin, ethereal and cold. Behind her head and back unfurled wings, actual wings, shaped like shards of night. Her gown swept down to the ground, moving unnaturally, as though the shadows themselves carried its weight.
Mira felt her breath stall.
Asta's eyes narrowed. "I recognize this ki…" he muttered. "What did he call her last time? Was it… Morgana?"
The woman flexed her right wrist with a soft exhale. The skin was faintly scorched. "So your power truly is Undoing," she said calmly. "I only brushed it, and it still burned me."
Mira's legs trembled. The air between Morgana and Asta felt sharp, cold, heavy with the promise of something dreadful.
Her captain stood firm.
The woman stood firm.
Mira swallowed hard, fear crawling up her spine.
Yes.
She was genuinely, unmistakably afraid.
Only yesterday morning she had still been in her cell. And now she was flying toward a battlefield, toward a fight against the very people who had freed her. It was dizzying. It was overwhelming. It was too much.
Even so, Mira didn't regret her decision. She still believed she'd made the right choice by refusing to follow Sylas and his rebels. She had seen what true freedom looked like, she'd seen it in the Black Bulls. She wanted to stay with them. To be part of them. And if that meant she had to fight, even though every part of her screamed that she didn't want to, she would fight.
But as she watched mages and Demacian guards clashing from high above on her captain's floating sword, she couldn't stop one thought from whispering through her mind.
'How am I supposed to do that?'
She felt Captain Asta lean forward slightly, and the sword dipped lower toward the ground. Ahead, the MageSeekers' headquarters loomed into view.
And the entrance… looked exactly like yesterday. Mages and soldiers slaughtering each other with magic and steel, fighting with no rhythm, no mercy, no sense.
Mira shut her eyes for a moment. She could feel the rush of wind against her face as they descended, cold, sharp, carrying the scent of burning stone.
Then everything changed.
In an instant, the sound of battle stopped. The clashing blades. The roaring flames. The grinding earth. The chaos vanished as the world simply… fell silent.
She didn't need to open her eyes to know why.
But when she did, she saw it clearly.
Every soldier. Every rebel mage. Every single person on the ground was staring upward, not at her, though she sat in plain view.
They were staring at the man standing behind her.
The Captain of the Black Bulls.
"You know, I really didn't want to come back to this place so soon," Asta said, irritation threading through his voice. "But you guys have a lot of balls to attack again this quickly after yesterday."
He stepped down from the floating sword first, landing lightly. Mira followed after him, taking his hand as she climbed down. Strangely, no one moved to attack them, not even when Asta paused to steady her.
"So here's what's going to happen," Asta said as he walked past Mira, his sword resting lazily on his shoulder. His eyes were fixed on a green-haired woman tangled in living vines. "You're all going to walk out of here. Quietly. You can return to wherever you came from without getting harassed… or you can stay, and get the worst ass-kicking of your life. Real embarrassing too."
Mira pressed her lips together to hold back a snicker, turning her head slightly so no one would see.
"Sir Asta, what are you talking about?" a guard called out. Mira stiffened when she recognized the armor, broad plates marked with the crest of the Dauntless Vanguard, Demacia's most elite knights.
She would never forget that armor. The Vanguard were the ones who dragged her father away after he fought back against the MageSeekers. She had screamed for him then, begged, but they never let her see him again.
"Letting these traitors go? Surely you jest," the knight said, his tone hopeful, as if expecting Asta to laugh and correct himself. "They attacked the city. Demacia is burning. We can end this right here."
Mira shifted uneasily, her hands clasping each other. She didn't like this tension. It reminded her too much of her father being dragged away in chains.
The green-haired mage tangled in vines spoke up, her eyes sharp. "We aren't surrendering. Not to them." She nodded at the knights, bitterness leaking through every word. "Not after what they've done to us."
Asta didn't look at her. He just asked quietly, "Do you want to fight me, then?"
Silence.
The woman's breath hitched. Her shoulders tensed. But she said nothing.
"Thought so," Asta muttered. He lifted his sword from his shoulder, holding it at his side. The motion was calm.
But the earth vibrated.
Mira saw it, the way the rebels' knees bent instinctively. The way the knights shifted back a step without even realizing it. The way even the air itself seemed to brace.
Asta wasn't releasing magic. He wasn't threatening anyone.
He was simply standing there in front of everyone.
And that alone terrified everyone.
Asta planted his sword into the ground with a dull thunk. "Look. I'm not here to babysit anyone. I'm not here to pick sides. I'm here because this is a mess. And if I'm going to be stuck here for the foreseeable future, then this needs to be cleared up."
His eyes locked on the Vanguard knight.
"You want justice? Then stop making things worse."
Then his gaze flicked to the rebels.
"You want freedom? Then stop setting stuff on fire."
He rolled his shoulders once, cracking his neck. "Everyone walks away. Everyone gets to go back home. No one loses their father, or their mother, or sister or loved ones. Let's not create orphans or widows and widowers."
The Vanguard knight grit his teeth. "Sir Asta… these rebels cannot be allowed to simply walk away. They must answer for their crimes."
Asta gave him a flat stare. "And tell me, who's going to answer for yours?"
The knight froze. The entire squad froze. Even the rebels froze.
"Because I've been into that building and buddy, it's taking every ounce of self restraint I have to not to tear this building into shreds." Asta pointed at the entrance to the MageSeekers headquarters. "Don't preach about justice to me."
The knight's knuckles whitened around his spear. For a moment, Mira thought he'd attack. She braced herself instinctively, pumpkins weren't going to save her from that.
But then… slowly… his spear lowered.
The rebels stared. The guards stared. Mira stared.
Asta nodded once. "Good. We're getting somewhere."
Then he jerked his chin toward the rebels. "Go. Get out of here. You got ten minutes before I change my mind."
The green-haired mage blinked in disbelief. "You're… letting us go?"
Asta was already turning away. "Lady, I've got better things to do than smack both sides of this argument across the street. Move."
The rebels exchanged looks, uncertain, confused, but relieved. They began pulling back, some supporting their injured, others dragging those too weak to walk.
Mira watched them leave, a weird feeling in her chest. Her captain had just stopped the entire fight without even having spilled a single blood. This was true freedom.
"You're only doing this..." She heard the Dauntless Vanguard knight speak. "You're only supporting them, because you're a mage. The Sword-Captain will hear this."
Asta paused, turning to face the knight that had spoken.
"All you are is a kid who got his hand on a dangerous curse." The knight finished with grit teeth.
Asta exhaled once, slow and heavy, before he finally looked over his shoulder.
"You done?" he asked.
The Dauntless Vanguard knight straightened, gripping his spear like a lifeline. "It's the truth. You wield cursed power that no mortal should possess. You didn't earn it. You didn't train for it. You stumbled upon something dangerous, and now you throw your weight around like a child."
Mira flinched. The rebels flinched. Even the guards behind him shifted uneasily.
Asta pulled his sword free from the ground with a soft scrape of metal. Mira felt that same ripple in the air as before, an instinctive warning, a pressure like the world bracing for impact.
Still, Asta didn't raise the blade.
He simply walked forward.
And soldiers, elite, armored, proud, stepped back from him without realizing they were doing it.
Asta stopped a few feet in front of the knight and tilted his head slightly. "You think I'm a kid with a curse?"
The knight sneered. "That's exactly what you are."
Asta hummed, almost thoughtfully. "Right. Because you know me. You've fought beside me. You've seen my training. You've watched me bleed for the people I care about. You..."
"What you care about isn't Demacia," the knight snapped. "It's mages. Your kind."
Mira felt like something cold stabbed through her chest. Her fingers curled involuntarily. That wasn't true. It wasn't true at all.
Asta stared at the knight for a long moment before saying, "Ah. Now it makes sense. So you're one of those."
"One of what?" the knight spat.
"One of the people who thinks justice is whatever makes you feel like the good guy."
Silence spread again. Thick and suffocating.
Asta continued, voice steady but sharp. "You say I didn't earn my power. Fine. Maybe. But the difference between us is simple."
He pointed his sword, not at the knight's throat, but down, at the blood-soaked ground.
"I've never had to use my strength to make excuses."
Asta took a slow step forward, and the man stood before him with bravado he obviously didn't have.
"You see a mage, you see a criminal. You see rebellion, you see monsters. You see anyone who doesn't fit in your perfect little kingdom, and you think the world would be better if they were gone."
The knight bristled. "They attacked our city!"
"And your city attacked them first." Asta's voice rose, not in anger, but like someone finally done holding their breath. "I walked through those halls yesterday. I saw corpses chained to those walls."
Several guards looked away.
Asta took another step. "Tell me, where was your justice then?"
The knight swallowed hard. "Those… those are dangerous individuals."
"They were kids." Asta's voice cracked, not loudly, but enough for Mira to feel it. "Kids who never got a chance."
The knight said nothing.
Asta leaned forward just slightly, his eyes narrowed. "Here's the truth. I'm not letting them go because I'm a mage. I'm letting them go because none of you deserved to die today."
He sheathed his sword in one smooth motion.
"And I don't need a kingdom's approval to do the right thing."
The knight trembled, jaw clenched tight. "The Sword-Captain will hear of this."
"Good," Asta said immediately. "I hope he does. Maybe Garen's got more common sense than you."
Asta turned his back on the knight completely and walked toward Mira. "Come on. We've still got half a burning city to put out. And a lot more rebels to convince to stop. I'm going to be doing a lot of shouting it seems."
But behind him, the knight wasn't finished.
"You think this makes you a hero?" he shouted. "You think protecting criminals makes you noble?"
Mira was really starting to get fed up by the knight. He really should know when he was defeated. She saw Asta turn to the sky instead of the knight.
It was then she noticed that the surroundings was a little brighter than earlier. Mira looked up, and a blue fireball the size of a wagon was streaking toward Asta from above the rooftops.
Her eyes widened. "Captain!"
Asta didn't even turn. "Of course."
The fireball hit.
For a moment, the world turned white and blue with a sound that deafened everything.
It took a moment for everything to settle down. When the smoke cleared a second later, Mira's eyes widened with awe.
Asta stood there, completely untouched, one hand raised casually Infront his head, palm open. A small ball of blue fire rested on it, hovering just above it.
The entire battlefield stared in disbelief.
Asta turned the burning sphere in his palm like he was examining a toy. "Alright. Who exactly thought this was a smart idea?"
A figure appeared from the rising smoke on the building top, he seemed to be holding a broom that was surrounded by blue flames. Most notable of all...
He was a kid, around Mira's age, maybe a little older, but his eyes were nothing like hers.
Where Mira's were full of fear and uncertainty, his were burning, swallowed completely by rage and in real time, they changed to something deeper… betrayal.
"So Sylas was right," the boy said, his fists trembling at his sides. "When I heard about you, we were all so excited. A mage in Demacia the MageSeekers couldn't silence. Someone strong enough to do whatever he wanted."
His voice cracked, but the fury never faded.
"But you're just like them in the end. Pretending you're better, when all you're doing is helping the people who tortured us. Who tortured me."
Mira blinked. She had known her captain was strong. Unbelievably strong. But the idea that he could "do whatever he wanted" in Demacia?
Asta didn't respond to the accusation.
Didn't even look bothered.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
"What's your name, kid?"
The boy flinched, as if he hadn't expected the question. He hesitated, then answered with a glare.
"Rukko. Sylas told us to stay away from you. Said you weren't someone we should fight. But I had to know. I had to see for myself."
"You seem disappointed," Asta said with a shrug. "Not like that's my problem what you think about me. You have something against the MageSeekers, well so do I, but I can't allow what you're all doing to continue. For the sake of the innocents that'll get caught up in this. So if you don't mind, it would be really helpful if you could just take the whole rebellion with you and leave."
Rukko growled. "Never. Today is the day when we show Demacia that we mages are no longer afraid..."
Asta moved.
Rukko flinched. Honestly, everyone flinched. Soldiers, rebels, even Mira felt her body jerk in reflex as the anti-magic captain shot forward with alarming speed.
Before Mira could even ask what was happening, Asta snapped his large sword back into the grimoire on his hip. In the same motion he drew another blade, a shorter one, though still long enough to be dangerous, broader than his katana but far lighter than the Demon-Slayer.
Mira barely had time to blink before Asta's hand clamped onto her shoulder and yanked her behind him.
"Captain..?" she started, startled.
But Asta was already turning, already slashing downward with his new blade.
A black wave exploded from the strike, a crescent of void energy that grew wider and deeper as it tore through the ground. The earth screamed as the wave carved a trench so long, Mira couldn't even see where it ended.
A single swing had ripped a trench large enough to swallow half a house.
Gasps rose from every throat.
A slash like that… hadn't been aimed at anyone here.
'Why did he do that…?' Mira thought, and she knew everyone else was thinking the same thing.
Then she noticed it. The trench, the path of destruction, hadn't been perfectly straight. There was a point where the earth crumbled at a slightly different angle, as though the strike had been nudged aside mid-flight.
And the reason appeared as the dust lifted.
A tall figure stepped out of the drifting smoke.
She had pale skin, ethereal and cold. Behind her head and back unfurled wings, actual wings, shaped like shards of night. Her gown swept down to the ground, moving unnaturally, as though the shadows themselves carried its weight.
Mira felt her breath stall.
Asta's eyes narrowed. "I recognize this ki…" he muttered. "What did he call her last time? Was it… Morgana?"
The woman flexed her right wrist with a soft exhale. The skin was faintly scorched. "So your power truly is Undoing," she said calmly. "I only brushed it, and it still burned me."
Mira's legs trembled. The air between Morgana and Asta felt sharp, cold, heavy with the promise of something dreadful.
Her captain stood firm.
The woman stood firm.
Mira swallowed hard, fear crawling up her spine.
Yes.
She was genuinely, unmistakably afraid.
ThePoroKing
The Fluffiest of Them All
- Joined
- Dec 24, 2023
- Messages
- 381
- Likes received
- 2,368
The peak has arrived!
trashtaker
The (un)lucky Patreon Saint of borrowed fortune
- Joined
- Jan 23, 2023
- Messages
- 4,767
- Likes received
- 81,687
Good cause im pretty sure if Asta met Kayle first. He might rip her wings off
Chapter Twenty Eight
New
SaberGlory
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- Dec 26, 2025
- Messages
- 32
- Likes received
- 231
Morgana felt her instincts flare, a quiet tightening beneath her ribs, even as she maintained the serene, statuesque composure she had perfected over centuries. At long last, she could place a face to the uneasy stirrings that had haunted her for months now, a whisper of unease that clung to the wind like an omen.
She stood before the entrance of the MageSeekers' headquarters, that wretched den of sanctimonious zealots who reminded her far too much of her sister. Their cruelty wore the same self-righteous mask, and she despised it. But her gaze was not upon them. It was fixed instead upon the young man with the power of negation
Her celestial birthright granted her a singular sight, an ancient and sorrowful gift. With but a single gaze, she could behold the sins of mortals, see how they clung to their souls like smoke drifting from a smoldering pyre. The wicked choked on their own darkness, the wounded bore thin wisps of pain, the cruel carried storms that blotted out the light.
This sight had long guided her hand, toward comfort, toward deliverance, toward judgment when she must. It had shaped the placement of her sanctuaries, hidden sanctums where the lost and hurting found solace.
But she had not expected what she saw when her gaze fell upon the young man standing protectively before the brown-haired girl.
At first, she saw nothing. No smoke. No stain. No shadow. And for a brief moment, she wondered if she looked upon the impossible, a soul without sin. But such a thing did not exist. Not in this broken age. Not in any age.
So Morgana looked deeper.
And only then did the smoke reveal itself, and she understood why she had missed it.
It was… beautiful.
That was the only word that dared touch the truth of it.
A sin-stain transfigured, incandescent, shimmering like the last light before dusk. It was so faint she had missed it entirely at first, so strangely beautiful she questioned her own senses.
This young man had sinned, yes, for he was mortal, but he had recognized those sins. Grieved them. Atoned, sincerely and fully, in a way even the ancient rarely achieved.
And he had done all this while still so unbearably young.
'How curious…' she breathed inwardly, a flicker of warmth piercing her eternal weariness. 'How wondrous… and how tragic.'
If he was not the tyrant of shadow she had feared, then how, in the name of all the old heavens, had he come to wield such a dreadful power? A force that unraveled, that erased, that defied the natural order she had spent a lifetime defending?
What manner of being stood before her?
What path of sorrow had he walked to become what he was now?
Morgana's fingers tightened faintly at her side. She felt her heart soften, bruised, but still tender.
How could such a being exist? How could one so young have walked a path so whole?
She realized she had been staring for far too long the moment his gaze shifted, quietly, unhurriedly, yet unmistakably tracking her own. And in that single, piercing exchange, another truth unfurled before her.
He understood.
Somehow, impossibly, he knew what she was doing. He sensed that she was seeing him, truly seeing him. His soul, his sins, his strange radiance of atonement. And though her thoughts had moved with the swiftness of ancient beings, measured in the breaths between heartbeats, she felt, no, knew, that he had matched her pace. That however long she had wandered through her observations of him, he had spent just as long studying her in return.
For those like them, for whom moments could lengthen into eternities, she had lingered far too long.
Morgana softened her expression, a faint smile touching her lips as she lifted her still-smoking hand. A reminder, painful, insistent, of just how swift he truly was. She had scarcely breached the veil, teleporting into the fray, when she saw the crescent of pure unmaking scream toward her.
In that bare instant she had summoned her chains, letting them coil before her like serpents of shadow and moonlight. She had parried celestial fire and cursed steel before, had withstood blows that toppled mountains and shattered sanctuaries.
But his power was not fire nor steel.
The moment her chains met the slash, they hissed, burned, and nearly dissolved, the very concept of them tearing away at the edges. Even with all her strength, even with centuries of mastery behind her, the chains cracked, splintering into drifting fragments, just enough for her to redirect the blow.
Still, the crescent grazed her.
Just the edge of it. Just the whisper of contact.
And it had seared the back of her hand as though it were the judgment of a god.
It still throbbed now, a quiet, insistent ache. Not unbearable, she had weathered far worse, but undeniably humbling.
She cradled her wrist with her other hand, exhaling softly.
"So," she murmured under her breath, more to herself than to the stunned mortals around them, "your power truly is undoing. I only brushed it, yet it still burned me."
There was no anger in her voice. Only wonder, and the faintest thread of unease.
"Nice to finally meet you," the young man said, and she took note of the way he subtly kept the young girl tucked behind him. Even without looking directly, Morgana could feel the child's suffering. Wisps of pain clung to her spirit like torn veils, fear, grief, abandonment, all wrapped around a soul that trembled as though it had weathered far too many storms for one so young.
"You did not exactly say hello when we first met," he continued, sword held at the ready, though no malice crossed the space between them. He was wary, yes, braced, guarded, but not hateful.
A truth she already knew. He had sensed her nature just as she had sensed his.
"You will have to forgive me," Morgana replied, inclining her head with soft dignity. "A lack of knowledge compelled me to haste. I sought only to safeguard my interests."
Her gaze drifted briefly across the MageSeekers and rebels who surrounded them, but not a shred of her attention truly settled on them. They were irrelevant to this moment.
"Sylas," the young man murmured, and though his expression barely shifted, she noticed the faint lowering of his eyes, weariness, disappointment, perhaps a trace of pity. "He will fail. As long as I'm here, he will fail."
Morgana offered a slow, solemn nod. She had expected no less. Sylas's fury had long since begun to rot into fanaticism. His desire for justice had withered beneath the weight of his revenge.
"I, too, am not blind to his faults," she said. "His rage blinds him. He has yet to grasp the weight of the consequences he sets upon his own shoulders."
She lifted a hand slightly, her fingers gesturing toward the young man. "Not as you have."
That drew a reaction from him. His eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with something more cautious, more probing.
"I don't suppose you're part of the rebels," he said.
"That's the Veiled Lady!" a young voice cried from the rooftop.
Morgana's gaze shifted upward, as did the young man's. A boy stood there, clutching a forging hammer far too large for his slight frame. He could not have seen more than fifteen summers, and yet the moment Morgana beheld him, a quiet sorrow settled upon her heart.
The smoke that clung to him, his sins, was heavy. Far too heavy for one so young.
His words sent ripples through the gathering. Gasps broke out from both knights and rebels alike, fear and awe threading their voices. Only the young man before her remained unmoved, steady as stone.
"Who?" he asked plainly, and even the trembling girl he shielded looked at him as though he had grown another head.
"Captain? H–how could you not know about the Veiled Lady?" she whispered, incredulous.
He let out a low groan. "Oi, don't look at me like that. It's not my fault, okay?" he muttered, almost petulantly.
A ripple of disbelief swept through the rebels, a series of hushed murmurs that crawled across the courtyard like nervous insects. Even the hardened MageSeekers stared, unsettled that he did not recognize the woman whose very name had become legend among the oppressed.
Morgana did not mind. Truthfully, she found his ignorance refreshing. So many mortals bowed or trembled at her presence, clinging to the myths etched around her name rather than seeing the woman herself.
"T-Tremble, Demacia!" Rukko suddenly shouted, voice cracking only once. "For she stands among us!"
Morgana blinked once, slowly. Asta raised a brow. Mira flinched.
Morgana could see how the boy's confidence seemed to grow the more he spoke.
"That's right!" he said, pointing his hammer dramatically toward Morgana as though unveiling a deity. "Open your eyes, all of you! Soldiers! Rebels! Cowards hiding behind those cursed MageSeeker chains!"
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
"This, this is the Veiled Lady!" Rukko declared, letting the title ring through the square with a boy's desperate need to be heard. "The one who shelters the broken! Who judges the corrupt! Who defies the tyranny that's ruled these streets for generations!"
His voice trembled, but his stance did not.
"She is the one who brings justice to those the MageSeekers cast aside!" he cried. "The one Sylas said would break the old chains of Demacia with us! And now, now she stands here, proving everything we believed in!"
Another wave of gasps rolled through the onlookers. Morgana's wings stirred faintly, a ripple of shadow and starlight, though her expression remained unreadable.
Rukko wasn't done.
"You see her, don't you? All of you! This isn't some mage to be hunted, this is hope!" His voice cracked again, but he didn't care. "Hope with wings and judgment and power even the MageSeekers fear!"
The rebels around him began to stir, the tension in their bodies rising like a storm being coaxed awake. Rukko pressed on, breathless, eyes bright with a mixture of faith and desperation.
"And as long as she stands with us!" he shouted. "As long as the veiled lady stands with us, we have nothing to fear."
He thrust his hammer upward like a rallying standard.
Oh. Oh dear.
Morgana felt a weary sigh curl at the back of her throat as she watched the rebels stir like startled birds, their emotions igniting and swelling in chaotic waves. The boy's proclamation had struck their hearts like a hammer to a gong, and now the zeal of youth was spreading among them with troubling speed.
This… was spiraling in a direction she did not like.
When she chose to unveil herself before the young man, she had braced herself for the possibility of battle. She did not relish it, but she had accepted it. Such was the way of the world. Revelation often came clothed in conflict.
Yet now that she had stood before him, looked upon him, understood him… Her certainty wavered.
Her chains, had nearly dissolved upon grazing his power. If sin was the measure by which her chains bound souls, then this youth could never be held. His atonement shone too brightly. His burdens had been lifted by his own hands, long before she ever laid eyes on him.
Most of her arts would wither to nothing beneath the erasing edge of his negation. And she had no desire, none at all, to unleash her celestial fire upon him, nor upon the trembling mortals around them. To do so would be to all but announce her return to Demacia. Kayle wouldn't be far behind after that.
Across from her, the young man turned, his eyes settling on her with wary focus.
"So you 'are' with the rebels," he said.
There was no accusation in his voice, merely a steady readiness, one warrior assessing another. His sword remained angled, and she knew it would soon point at her again.
Morgana drew herself upright, the veil of calm she wore settling around her shoulders like a dark mantle. The rebels behind him rallied, murmuring, gathering courage they did not fully understand. She felt their hope, their anger, their desperation, and she pitied them.
But her gaze stayed on him. Only him.
Morgana inclined her head, slow and deliberate, a gesture neither denial nor concession. Shadows stirred at her feet, drawn to her sorrow as much as her power.
"I only came here for you," she answered softly, "Your power is one that darkens the beauty of the world."
Her voice, calm and measured, did nothing to quell the fervor behind the rebels. Rukko was still alight with the feverish triumph of youth, chest heaving as though he had personally summoned her from the heavens. The others murmured, hope gathering like a storm they no longer feared.
He looked at her flatly. "That doesn't answer my question."
Morgana's lips curved faintly. "No," she said gently, "it does not."
His eyes narrowed. She felt the shift in him, the quiet settling of intent, the way a warrior lowers his heart into readiness.
He would not trust Morgana, not when surrounded by rebels who worshipped her like an omen of revolution. Her very presence had spurred them to more violence.
The MageSeekers in the back began to shout, emboldened by the confusion flaring around them.
"Filthy witch!"
"She's manipulating them!"
"Don't trust the witch!"
"Seize the boy, he's dangerous too!"
Morgana's wings twitched behind her, shadows rippling like the brush of nightfall.
Rukko stepped forward again, hammer trembling in both hands. "You heard her! She's with us! As long as the Veiled Lady stands..."
"Enough," The foreigner said, then he exhaled once, grounding himself. Then he turned back to Morgana.
"I don't know what you are," he said, steady as stone. "But we can talk after you've brought yourself in."
Then he looked around. "Everyone else stand down. Now!"
Of course no one followed his orders anymore. The rebels in their high rushed at the MageSeekers who retaliated in return.
It seemed that the foreigner finally understood that he wasn't going to be able to quell this without violence, and he could only start with the source of the rebel's confidence.
Her wings unfurled with the soft roar of ancient storms, their shadowed span catching the light in rippling violet and gold. Chains erupted from the ground at her command, sleek, coiling, divine things, barred in front of her like a shield of dusk-forged armor.
She had originally come here to test him after all. And although she had read his heart and saw that he was not Demacia's destruction, it seemed that they were fated to do battle today.
The negation strike met them.
Her chains burned white at the edges, their essence unraveling, stripped away thread by thread. She felt each fracture like a knife along her nerves.
Still, she held firm.
The force of his blow slid across her defenses, redirected into the stone to her left, carving a gouge deep enough to swallow a man whole.
He was attacking with the intent to disable, not kill. Morgana understood that and she respected it.
But she could not allow Demacia to become their battleground. She could not give her sister a reason to descend from the celestial realm.
She slipped backward, feet leaving the ground entirely as she hovered above the fractured earth. Her chains recoiled, circling protectively around her like serpents forged of midnight.
"The name's Asta. Asta Staria Silver." He said, and she felt his dreadful power slowly cover him and the girl behind him.
'He's polite too.' She smiled as she replied. "Although you already know it. You may refer to me as Morganna."
Then she teleported, and even as she appeared in the sacred forest she felt him arrive above her with a swing.
Boom!
She stood before the entrance of the MageSeekers' headquarters, that wretched den of sanctimonious zealots who reminded her far too much of her sister. Their cruelty wore the same self-righteous mask, and she despised it. But her gaze was not upon them. It was fixed instead upon the young man with the power of negation
Her celestial birthright granted her a singular sight, an ancient and sorrowful gift. With but a single gaze, she could behold the sins of mortals, see how they clung to their souls like smoke drifting from a smoldering pyre. The wicked choked on their own darkness, the wounded bore thin wisps of pain, the cruel carried storms that blotted out the light.
This sight had long guided her hand, toward comfort, toward deliverance, toward judgment when she must. It had shaped the placement of her sanctuaries, hidden sanctums where the lost and hurting found solace.
But she had not expected what she saw when her gaze fell upon the young man standing protectively before the brown-haired girl.
At first, she saw nothing. No smoke. No stain. No shadow. And for a brief moment, she wondered if she looked upon the impossible, a soul without sin. But such a thing did not exist. Not in this broken age. Not in any age.
So Morgana looked deeper.
And only then did the smoke reveal itself, and she understood why she had missed it.
It was… beautiful.
That was the only word that dared touch the truth of it.
A sin-stain transfigured, incandescent, shimmering like the last light before dusk. It was so faint she had missed it entirely at first, so strangely beautiful she questioned her own senses.
This young man had sinned, yes, for he was mortal, but he had recognized those sins. Grieved them. Atoned, sincerely and fully, in a way even the ancient rarely achieved.
And he had done all this while still so unbearably young.
'How curious…' she breathed inwardly, a flicker of warmth piercing her eternal weariness. 'How wondrous… and how tragic.'
If he was not the tyrant of shadow she had feared, then how, in the name of all the old heavens, had he come to wield such a dreadful power? A force that unraveled, that erased, that defied the natural order she had spent a lifetime defending?
What manner of being stood before her?
What path of sorrow had he walked to become what he was now?
Morgana's fingers tightened faintly at her side. She felt her heart soften, bruised, but still tender.
How could such a being exist? How could one so young have walked a path so whole?
She realized she had been staring for far too long the moment his gaze shifted, quietly, unhurriedly, yet unmistakably tracking her own. And in that single, piercing exchange, another truth unfurled before her.
He understood.
Somehow, impossibly, he knew what she was doing. He sensed that she was seeing him, truly seeing him. His soul, his sins, his strange radiance of atonement. And though her thoughts had moved with the swiftness of ancient beings, measured in the breaths between heartbeats, she felt, no, knew, that he had matched her pace. That however long she had wandered through her observations of him, he had spent just as long studying her in return.
For those like them, for whom moments could lengthen into eternities, she had lingered far too long.
Morgana softened her expression, a faint smile touching her lips as she lifted her still-smoking hand. A reminder, painful, insistent, of just how swift he truly was. She had scarcely breached the veil, teleporting into the fray, when she saw the crescent of pure unmaking scream toward her.
In that bare instant she had summoned her chains, letting them coil before her like serpents of shadow and moonlight. She had parried celestial fire and cursed steel before, had withstood blows that toppled mountains and shattered sanctuaries.
But his power was not fire nor steel.
The moment her chains met the slash, they hissed, burned, and nearly dissolved, the very concept of them tearing away at the edges. Even with all her strength, even with centuries of mastery behind her, the chains cracked, splintering into drifting fragments, just enough for her to redirect the blow.
Still, the crescent grazed her.
Just the edge of it. Just the whisper of contact.
And it had seared the back of her hand as though it were the judgment of a god.
It still throbbed now, a quiet, insistent ache. Not unbearable, she had weathered far worse, but undeniably humbling.
She cradled her wrist with her other hand, exhaling softly.
"So," she murmured under her breath, more to herself than to the stunned mortals around them, "your power truly is undoing. I only brushed it, yet it still burned me."
There was no anger in her voice. Only wonder, and the faintest thread of unease.
"Nice to finally meet you," the young man said, and she took note of the way he subtly kept the young girl tucked behind him. Even without looking directly, Morgana could feel the child's suffering. Wisps of pain clung to her spirit like torn veils, fear, grief, abandonment, all wrapped around a soul that trembled as though it had weathered far too many storms for one so young.
"You did not exactly say hello when we first met," he continued, sword held at the ready, though no malice crossed the space between them. He was wary, yes, braced, guarded, but not hateful.
A truth she already knew. He had sensed her nature just as she had sensed his.
"You will have to forgive me," Morgana replied, inclining her head with soft dignity. "A lack of knowledge compelled me to haste. I sought only to safeguard my interests."
Her gaze drifted briefly across the MageSeekers and rebels who surrounded them, but not a shred of her attention truly settled on them. They were irrelevant to this moment.
"Sylas," the young man murmured, and though his expression barely shifted, she noticed the faint lowering of his eyes, weariness, disappointment, perhaps a trace of pity. "He will fail. As long as I'm here, he will fail."
Morgana offered a slow, solemn nod. She had expected no less. Sylas's fury had long since begun to rot into fanaticism. His desire for justice had withered beneath the weight of his revenge.
"I, too, am not blind to his faults," she said. "His rage blinds him. He has yet to grasp the weight of the consequences he sets upon his own shoulders."
She lifted a hand slightly, her fingers gesturing toward the young man. "Not as you have."
That drew a reaction from him. His eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with something more cautious, more probing.
"I don't suppose you're part of the rebels," he said.
"That's the Veiled Lady!" a young voice cried from the rooftop.
Morgana's gaze shifted upward, as did the young man's. A boy stood there, clutching a forging hammer far too large for his slight frame. He could not have seen more than fifteen summers, and yet the moment Morgana beheld him, a quiet sorrow settled upon her heart.
The smoke that clung to him, his sins, was heavy. Far too heavy for one so young.
His words sent ripples through the gathering. Gasps broke out from both knights and rebels alike, fear and awe threading their voices. Only the young man before her remained unmoved, steady as stone.
"Who?" he asked plainly, and even the trembling girl he shielded looked at him as though he had grown another head.
"Captain? H–how could you not know about the Veiled Lady?" she whispered, incredulous.
He let out a low groan. "Oi, don't look at me like that. It's not my fault, okay?" he muttered, almost petulantly.
A ripple of disbelief swept through the rebels, a series of hushed murmurs that crawled across the courtyard like nervous insects. Even the hardened MageSeekers stared, unsettled that he did not recognize the woman whose very name had become legend among the oppressed.
Morgana did not mind. Truthfully, she found his ignorance refreshing. So many mortals bowed or trembled at her presence, clinging to the myths etched around her name rather than seeing the woman herself.
"T-Tremble, Demacia!" Rukko suddenly shouted, voice cracking only once. "For she stands among us!"
Morgana blinked once, slowly. Asta raised a brow. Mira flinched.
Morgana could see how the boy's confidence seemed to grow the more he spoke.
"That's right!" he said, pointing his hammer dramatically toward Morgana as though unveiling a deity. "Open your eyes, all of you! Soldiers! Rebels! Cowards hiding behind those cursed MageSeeker chains!"
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
"This, this is the Veiled Lady!" Rukko declared, letting the title ring through the square with a boy's desperate need to be heard. "The one who shelters the broken! Who judges the corrupt! Who defies the tyranny that's ruled these streets for generations!"
His voice trembled, but his stance did not.
"She is the one who brings justice to those the MageSeekers cast aside!" he cried. "The one Sylas said would break the old chains of Demacia with us! And now, now she stands here, proving everything we believed in!"
Another wave of gasps rolled through the onlookers. Morgana's wings stirred faintly, a ripple of shadow and starlight, though her expression remained unreadable.
Rukko wasn't done.
"You see her, don't you? All of you! This isn't some mage to be hunted, this is hope!" His voice cracked again, but he didn't care. "Hope with wings and judgment and power even the MageSeekers fear!"
The rebels around him began to stir, the tension in their bodies rising like a storm being coaxed awake. Rukko pressed on, breathless, eyes bright with a mixture of faith and desperation.
"And as long as she stands with us!" he shouted. "As long as the veiled lady stands with us, we have nothing to fear."
He thrust his hammer upward like a rallying standard.
Oh. Oh dear.
Morgana felt a weary sigh curl at the back of her throat as she watched the rebels stir like startled birds, their emotions igniting and swelling in chaotic waves. The boy's proclamation had struck their hearts like a hammer to a gong, and now the zeal of youth was spreading among them with troubling speed.
This… was spiraling in a direction she did not like.
When she chose to unveil herself before the young man, she had braced herself for the possibility of battle. She did not relish it, but she had accepted it. Such was the way of the world. Revelation often came clothed in conflict.
Yet now that she had stood before him, looked upon him, understood him… Her certainty wavered.
Her chains, had nearly dissolved upon grazing his power. If sin was the measure by which her chains bound souls, then this youth could never be held. His atonement shone too brightly. His burdens had been lifted by his own hands, long before she ever laid eyes on him.
Most of her arts would wither to nothing beneath the erasing edge of his negation. And she had no desire, none at all, to unleash her celestial fire upon him, nor upon the trembling mortals around them. To do so would be to all but announce her return to Demacia. Kayle wouldn't be far behind after that.
Across from her, the young man turned, his eyes settling on her with wary focus.
"So you 'are' with the rebels," he said.
There was no accusation in his voice, merely a steady readiness, one warrior assessing another. His sword remained angled, and she knew it would soon point at her again.
Morgana drew herself upright, the veil of calm she wore settling around her shoulders like a dark mantle. The rebels behind him rallied, murmuring, gathering courage they did not fully understand. She felt their hope, their anger, their desperation, and she pitied them.
But her gaze stayed on him. Only him.
Morgana inclined her head, slow and deliberate, a gesture neither denial nor concession. Shadows stirred at her feet, drawn to her sorrow as much as her power.
"I only came here for you," she answered softly, "Your power is one that darkens the beauty of the world."
Her voice, calm and measured, did nothing to quell the fervor behind the rebels. Rukko was still alight with the feverish triumph of youth, chest heaving as though he had personally summoned her from the heavens. The others murmured, hope gathering like a storm they no longer feared.
He looked at her flatly. "That doesn't answer my question."
Morgana's lips curved faintly. "No," she said gently, "it does not."
His eyes narrowed. She felt the shift in him, the quiet settling of intent, the way a warrior lowers his heart into readiness.
He would not trust Morgana, not when surrounded by rebels who worshipped her like an omen of revolution. Her very presence had spurred them to more violence.
The MageSeekers in the back began to shout, emboldened by the confusion flaring around them.
"Filthy witch!"
"She's manipulating them!"
"Don't trust the witch!"
"Seize the boy, he's dangerous too!"
Morgana's wings twitched behind her, shadows rippling like the brush of nightfall.
Rukko stepped forward again, hammer trembling in both hands. "You heard her! She's with us! As long as the Veiled Lady stands..."
"Enough," The foreigner said, then he exhaled once, grounding himself. Then he turned back to Morgana.
"I don't know what you are," he said, steady as stone. "But we can talk after you've brought yourself in."
Then he looked around. "Everyone else stand down. Now!"
Of course no one followed his orders anymore. The rebels in their high rushed at the MageSeekers who retaliated in return.
It seemed that the foreigner finally understood that he wasn't going to be able to quell this without violence, and he could only start with the source of the rebel's confidence.
Her wings unfurled with the soft roar of ancient storms, their shadowed span catching the light in rippling violet and gold. Chains erupted from the ground at her command, sleek, coiling, divine things, barred in front of her like a shield of dusk-forged armor.
She had originally come here to test him after all. And although she had read his heart and saw that he was not Demacia's destruction, it seemed that they were fated to do battle today.
The negation strike met them.
Her chains burned white at the edges, their essence unraveling, stripped away thread by thread. She felt each fracture like a knife along her nerves.
Still, she held firm.
The force of his blow slid across her defenses, redirected into the stone to her left, carving a gouge deep enough to swallow a man whole.
He was attacking with the intent to disable, not kill. Morgana understood that and she respected it.
But she could not allow Demacia to become their battleground. She could not give her sister a reason to descend from the celestial realm.
She slipped backward, feet leaving the ground entirely as she hovered above the fractured earth. Her chains recoiled, circling protectively around her like serpents forged of midnight.
"The name's Asta. Asta Staria Silver." He said, and she felt his dreadful power slowly cover him and the girl behind him.
'He's polite too.' She smiled as she replied. "Although you already know it. You may refer to me as Morganna."
Then she teleported, and even as she appeared in the sacred forest she felt him arrive above her with a swing.
Boom!
trashtaker
The (un)lucky Patreon Saint of borrowed fortune
- Joined
- Jan 23, 2023
- Messages
- 4,767
- Likes received
- 81,687
Now im curious how Asta and Syndra will act if they met each other