Chapter 202: The revelry has only begun!

Bad luck.

A laughable concept.

When one was an Inheritor, when one was chosen by their God, when one was elevated beyond the reach of mere mortals, bad luck should have been beneath them.

After all, they stood at the peak.

The chosen few.

The best of the best.

And yet—

Reynard felt like the unluckiest man alive.

The winds howled across the desolate expanse of their battlefield, a vast and lifeless stretch of scorched earth and jagged rock. The ground beneath them, once sturdy and unyielding, now seemingly quivered.

Inheritors.

Those that stood at the precipice of transcendence, honed by the gift of Arcane Ascendance, granted power so vast that even the strongest of warriors could only dream of reaching their level.

With such immense power, one would assume that standing upon the battlefield should feel empowering.

It did not.

Reynard exhaled, his breath slow and steady, yet the weight behind it carried through the wasteland like a heavy omen.

His aqua eyes, sharp and alert, were locked onto the one enemy that stood against them.

One.

Just one.

But it didn't feel like one person.

Mikoto Yukio stood at the epicenter of their clash, an unmoving monolith amidst the three—yet his posture was nothing short of mockery.

There was no battle stance. No readiness.

His gauntleted hand rested lazily on his hip, as if he were waiting for something that had yet to amuse him. His black armor remained pristine, the bits of sunlight catching against its smooth obsidian plating.

It was as though he had already won—as though this was a foregone conclusion.

And that…

That was the worst part.

Not arrogance.

Not overconfidence.

Indifference.

Not even Lyraeth crashing him through three mountains had been enough to stir him from that composed, careless demeanor. Reynard had fought countless battles before, but never—never—had he encountered an opponent that made his entire being scream at him to run, barring that Ancestor woman.

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palm as he repressed the uneasy weight in his chest.

("By the Gods…")

His mind flickered back, back to the golden woman, the fierce Ancestor, the one who had unleashed an unholy army upon them. He remembered the sheer number of creatures, the way they had swarmed like locusts, how the knights had struggled to keep them at bay.

And yet.

And yet.

Mikoto Yukio had single-handedly carved through ten thousand of them.

Ten. Thousand.

It wasn't power alone.

It was something beyond that.

Something far worse.

Vulcan, standing at Reynard's side, looked just as displeased with the situation, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His piercing white eyes narrowed as he let out an irritated exhale.

("And the others don't even expect us to win,") Reynard internally whined, though he knew the expectation of failure was more on himself and Vulcan than it was on Lyraeth.

Lyraeth, the battle maniac, a radiant beacon of destruction, the strongest among them here.

And yet—

Even she had hesitated.

A single bead of sweat.

It clung to her dark skin, trailing from her brow, catching in the sunlight like a lone drop.

She was excited—ecstatic even—but Reynard could see the difference.

It wasn't the excitement of an overwhelming fight.

It was the excitement of a life-threatening battle.

And that difference was terrifying.

And then, her voice rang through the battlefield.

"Hey, you're pretty strong, huh!" Her wild grin was unwavering, fierce and hungry, her golden eyes shimmering with a heat as intense as the burning sun she was born from. "Taking all that damage and even countering—" Her gloved fingers curled, her stance shifted, her mana intensified, flaring around her like a wildfire. "I'm raring to go now."

A silence followed.

An eerie, stretched silence.

And then—

"Maybe don't compliment the enemy," Vulcan grumbled, rubbing his temple with a pained expression.

"C-come on, let's just get this over with, yeah?" Reynard forced the words out, but they felt hollow. He wanted them to sound confident, to carry the strength of an Inheritor. He failed. Miserably. His thoughts raced. ("This guy can't possibly take on three Inheritors, right?")

That should have been an impossible notion.

And yet—

Mikoto's voice cut through the air like a blade.

A whisper of pure, unfiltered malice.

"This is great." The weight of those words pressed against them, making the air feel thicker, suffocating. "I was thinking of hunting you all down." A slow exhale. "But to come to me."

And then—

He laughed.

It was not a cackle of insanity.

Not a roar of excitement.

But a amused chuckle, the sound of a monster watching prey that had just walked into its den.

"Finally, some good fucking luck."

And then—

He stepped forward.

One step.

A single step.

It felt like the entire battlefield shifted.

"Well then."

Another step.

A ripple surged outward, the very ground beneath them vibrating.

"Let's begin, yeah?"

His fingers twitched.

"Better not hold back—"

A third step.

And suddenly—

The pressure was suffocating.

The weight of his presence crashed into them, raw, violent, unrelenting.

"—or you might die."

Not a threat.

A certainty.

And for the first time—

They felt it.

True danger.

This was not a battle they could afford to ease into.

If they did—

They would die.

Their bodies moved on instinct.

And then—

A roar of mana erupted across the battlefield.

"Arcane Ascendance!"

"Arcane Ascendance!"

"Arcane Ascendance!"

--------------------

The sky was a shattered thing. Fractured beyond repair, its gaping wounds oozed a dim, dying light that barely cast shadows upon the land. Jagged, broken clouds drifted like the remains of something long dead, hollowed out and left to rot. It was a sight so familiar it barely registered in his mind anymore.

A world utterly ruined. A battlefield that had long since been stripped of its warriors. And yet, conflict remained.

Dante stood unmoved.

A gust of wind, dry and biting, swept across the wasteland, dragging the scent of old blood and scorched earth with it. Arms folded, fingers tapping against the alloy of his gauntlets, he remained silent, an impassive monolith amidst the decay.

Then, with a voice edged in steel—calm—he finally spoke. "What is the current situation?"

His question was directed at Rowena.

The woman stood nearby, unmoving save for the faint rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes were closed, yet she was not blind to the world—if anything, she saw more than most ever could. A gentle, almost lazy sway of her head accompanied her words as she observed something beyond mortal sight.

"Hm…" she murmured, almost absently.

A silence, brief but weighted, stretched between them before she continued, the faint teal glow beneath her eyelids flickering as she drifted through unseen currents of knowledge.

"Lyraeth, Vulcan, and Reynard are engaging Mikoto Yukio as we speak," she relayed, her tone as cool and steady as the wind that brushed against them.

Dante did not react.

Rowena continued.

"Vel'ryr's forces have fragmented into smaller units. Galadriel's are doing the same. The pieces are moving." Her eyes finally opened. Teal irises glowed faintly as they locked onto Dante's unreadable helmet. "The battle is beginning in earnest."

A snort of disdain cut through the still air.

"Tch, I just hope we get rid of that freak Mikoto Yukio sooner rather than later." The voice—sharp, irritated—belonged to Reylthorn, a boy far younger than the weight of his words implied.

Seated atop a jagged boulder, one arm lazily draped over his knee, he stared out into the distance with a mixture of impatience and unease. His bright blue eyes, uncertain, flickered toward the others as he continued. "I mean, really. Who in their right mind scoffs at the Goddess Octavia? You'd have to be insane to do something like that."

A chuckle—sweet, teasing, and laced with amusement—answered him.

"Oh? Is my dear little brother scared?" Lilith's voice was soft, lilting, the edges of her words curling into something almost mocking. She raised a delicate hand, covering her lips as though suppressing laughter, though her blue eyes gleamed with a taunting light. "I find it rather enticing, actually. A man who dares defy the divine? How bold. How... exciting."

Reylthorn visibly recoiled.

"Oh, for the love of—stop with your harlot nonsense!"

The words had barely left his lips before—CRACK.

A sharp chop landed squarely on the top of his head.

"Ow! Damn it!" He hissed, rubbing the sore spot.

Lilith wagged a finger at him, her expression one of exaggerated disappointment. "Tut, tut, no swearing."

Reylthorn glowered.

Dante, throughout it all, remained silent. He simply turned his head slightly, exchanging a glance with Rowena. Neither of them reacted to the bickering. It was of no consequence. Their minds were elsewhere.

Rowena spoke first.

"Maerwynn and Aerinon have already departed. Isabella followed Lyra—seems she has unfinished business with one of the Ancestors." Her gaze shifted toward the horizon. "Some of Galadriel's forces are advancing on Vel'ryr. Where does that leave us?"

Dante exhaled slowly. "The plan remains unchanged." There was no room for doubt. No hesitation. "I do not expect those three to best Mikoto Yukio. Even if they fight with everything they have, he will only grow stronger from it."

A thoughtful hum.

Rowena tilted her head slightly, teal eyes narrowing as if analyzing an unseen thread of logic.

"Lyra suggested sending our weakest after him first. That woman favors him—there's no doubt about that. Perhaps it's best we keep our distance for now."

Dante gave the slightest nod. "We focus on Galadriel's team. Mikoto Yukio. Guinevere. The First Princess. Lucinda. Those are the strongest among them. But..."

A pause.

"Stay clear of Guinevere."

Rowena raised an eyebrow.

She knew Dante well enough to recognize when something lingered beneath his words. There was a faint shift in his tone—something almost imperceptible. Was it caution? Concern? She did not ask. It was not her place to pry.

"Then I shall handle either the princess or the spawn of Octavia."

"That would be best. Have the siblings support you."

It was then that Dante's posture changed. A fraction of a second—a subtle tilt of his head, a shift in weight.

Rowena noticed immediately, mirroring his movement, her eyes narrowing.

"...We have visitors."

Her words were barely above a whisper.

Dante's response was almost dismissive.

"I will handle them."

There was no doubt. No question.

Rowena did not argue. She did not even offer him luck. After all—Dante had no need for it.

Without another word, she turned on her heel, approaching the siblings and placing a gloved hand on each of their shoulders. In an instant, a bright teal light engulfed them.

Then, they were gone.

Dante did not spare them another glance. His focus was forward.

The ruined ground groaned beneath his armored steps as he moved, the weight of his presence sinking into the desolate earth. His stride was measured, steady, yet each step carried a promise of violence.

Then—a whisper of movement.

A split second.

A blur of color.

Dante leapt backward, just as something collided with the earth where he had stood mere moments ago.

BOOM.

The impact shattered the ground, deep fissures webbing outward as dust and debris erupted into the air. Dante's cape billowed violently, his hand lifting slightly as he dismissed the cloud of dust with a single, forceful motion.

There—amidst the destruction, barefoot, wild-eyed, her tattered dress swaying with eerie grace—stood a woman.

She laughed.

"Haha! The Bloody Knight! It's you! It's truly you!" Her red eyes gleamed with sickly delight, her breath uneven with giddy excitement.

Dante's voice was cold. "Ancestor of Malice."

Her laughter only grew.

"You remember me~" A fierce blush raced across her face, her expression twisting in near-ecstasy. "So happy! Gyahaha! So very happy!"

Dante exhaled slowly. His hands remained at his sides, relaxed yet poised, his stance unwavering. As if nothing—neither God, demon, nor Ancestor—could stir him.

And then, from above—

It resounded.

A dull, cold voice descended.

Perched atop a jagged cliff of blackened rock, a figure gazed down upon Dante with the impassive arrogance of one who had witnessed the birth and decay of countless things. Her crimson eyes bore into him, unwavering, calculating.

Her long hair, split down the middle—one half a luminous silver, the other a deep, oceanic blue—whipped wildly in the wind, yet she stood unmoved, untouched by the chaos of the wasteland.

"I would have much preferred if she remained out of commission," The voice mused, it neither harsh nor concerned, merely stating a fact. Aurélie exhaled softly, a breath laced with contempt. "Well, it matters not now," she intoned, her voice carrying the weight of inevitability. "More numbers will ensure your demise, after all."

A pause. Then, in a tone laced with something resembling mild disappointment, she added—

"A shame, however. I would have liked to make use of you."

And then, almost as an afterthought—

"Mikoto Yukio alone will have to suffice."

She spoke his name with an air of detached interest, as if contemplating an alternative route in a grand design where Dante was no longer a viable piece.

From the shifting shadows of the landscape, another voice emerged, smooth and unhurried, carrying a faint amusement beneath its calm. "Gisèle is merely happy to be in working condition," the voice said, "no need to be harsh." A few paces away, standing with an air of effortless poise, was yet another figure—Aithne, an Ancestor whose very presence carried mystery. "I imagine I would not be able to pursue my agenda with you around."

His dark blue hair swayed lazily in the wind, his red eyes gleaming with a knowing light. He was neither tense nor careless—a man who understood the battlefield, who recognized Dante for what he was, yet remained utterly unshaken.

Dante's response was a mere grunt.

A dismissive sound.

It was not annoyance. Not even derision. Just an acknowledgment of existence.

Then, a voice that lacked the conviction of the others, its cadence laced with hesitation. "...Would Rhiannon not be dissatisfied with us going after him?" Ezerald. Her gaze flickered toward the others, lingering on them as if seeking assurance, questioning the necessity of this confrontation. Unlike the others, she did not radiate certainty—she was here, but her will wavered.

At her side, Beatrice's expression was drawn into an irritable frown. Her arms folded, her stance tense, her entire being exuding the aura of someone who deeply resented being in this situation. "I wanted Mikoto Yukio, not this monster," Beatrice muttered, her tone low and uneasy.

Aithne, unmoved by their concerns, merely shrugged. "This is simply for the best," he said, his voice utterly composed. "We needed to fill in the ranks. Britha refuses to fight alongside anyone but Naga, so we were left with you two."

Then, his gaze sharpened, his tone shifting into something colder, sharper.

"Your strength has increased exponentially. You now hold the power to defeat lesser Gods. Stop being cowards and letting Rhiannon hold your hand." Aithne's words were surgical in their intent—to strip away their hesitation, to force them into acceptance. To make them embrace their role in the coming battle.

From her perch above, Aurélie exhaled, as if the entire exchange was nothing more than an inconvenience.

"Indeed," she murmured, "in this desolate plain, he is the most dangerous one." Her crimson eyes narrowed. "A pity. I gauged you could have been of help. But from how insistent you seem on keeping the balance of this era..." Then, the faintest of smirks tugged at the corners of her lips. "You simply cannot be suffered to live."

Silence fell.

Then—a sound.

The faintest exhale of breath from beneath Dante's helmet.

It was not a sigh of exhaustion. Not one of hesitation.

Then—his voice.

Cold. Measured. Unshaken.

"Is that so."

A statement. Not a question.

His fingers flexed at his sides, the joints of his gauntlets shifting slightly, alloy against alloy.

Then—he took a step forward.

It was slow. Deliberate. Unrushed.

Yet every single one of them felt it.

The shift. The change.

The way the air itself seemed to tremble, twisting beneath the weight of inevitability.

And then—

"An impasse, hm?"

His head tilted slightly, as if contemplating something with the detachment of a butcher surveying livestock.

Then, his helmet gleamed gleamed.

"You Ancestors and Fate Walkers are a blight upon this era. A stain upon its pages.

And as such—"

The wind howled.

The sky groaned.

"I shall begin culling you as of now."

A sentence. A decree.

And in that single moment, the air grew tense, the atmosphere thick with something unspoken.

A chill—not of fear, but of realization.

They had come prepared for battle. But had they been prepared enough?

--------------------

"This place is so dead." The words dragged through the lifeless air, coated in unfiltered exasperation. "There's dust everywhere." A cough—delicate yet pointed—echoed alongside those words, as if to truly emphasize the sheer injustice of it all. "It's getting in my eyes—my hair—my mouth—ugh, my ears too, ew."

The voice carried a tragic weight, the tone embodying the spirit of a warrior who had been subjected to a fate worse than death.

A pause. A long, suffering pause.

And then—

"Bleghr."

Grimm felt something within him die.

Beneath the impassive mask of his helmet, his stare was the epitome of dry, soul-crushing exhaustion. His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched.

Why? Why, in all his years, had he been cursed with this blight of a subordinate?

Next to him, Mallory trudged through the dust-coated wasteland, her green eyes squinted as if the very air was waging war against her existence. The wind, relentless and howling, carried the grains of dust like vengeful spirits, causing her silver hair to billow behind her like a war banner—though its wielder was anything but valiant as she held her cap onto her head.

Grimm's much taller frame loomed over her, his imposing stature almost comically at odds with the sheer absurdity of their current conversation.

As he strode forward, his vibrant red hair swayed, catching in the dusty breeze. With an exasperated shake of his head, he finally spoke, voice carrying the firm, disciplinary edge of a commander who had long since abandoned hope for reason.

"Fool," he rumbled, the single word carrying the weight of an entire speech about disappointment. "It has barely been ten minutes since that Goddess placed us in this world. Yet here you are—whining like some child."

Mallory did not miss a beat.

Her expression did not change. Her tone did not shift.

Yet somehow, she made sure he felt every ounce of her indifference.

"Not everyone is an old, grizzled man like you, ya know."

The sheer audacity.

Grimm's eye twitched beneath his helmet.

A moment later, his hand moved.

With perfect precision, his gauntleted fingers flicked forward—

A direct hit.

"Oomphf!"

Mallory recoiled as his flick struck the tip of her nose, her head jerking back slightly from the force.

She rubbed at her nose with exaggerated sorrow, her dull eyes narrowing into the most unconvincing glare ever conjured. Grimm scoffed, barely offering her the satisfaction of acknowledgment as he continued his stride, his sabatons crunching against the wasteland's barren earth.

"I am only twenty-three winters old, you dolt."

Mallory's stare remained blank, unmoved.

Then—"Mhm."

The lack of belief in that single syllable made something in Grimm's soul crack.

He exhaled, shaking his head.

"You complain too much, Mallory. I might have to cut your wage—"

"No!" The response was immediate, visceral— almost desperate. She snapped to attention, her hands clutching her chest as if he had just threatened her very existence. "I've almost saved up enough!"

Grimm tilted his head.

"You've almost saved up enough? For what, exactly?"

A beat of silence.

Mallory coughed into her gloved hand, shifting ever so slightly as she adjusted her cap.

Then—with a voice so casual it could have been mistaken for weather talk—

"For bigger boobs."

The world stood still.

Grimm stared.

Mallory stared back, her expression as neutral as a sleeping corpse.

"... ..."

"... ..."

"... ..."

Grimm exhaled. A long, slow exhale.

Then, at last—

"You're an idiot."

Mallory huffed, crossing her arms with an air of profound indignation.

"Hmph! I do not expect an old man to understand the appeal of—"

A flick—this time to the forehead.

"Oow!"

She recoiled once more, clutching at her freshly assaulted forehead as she stumbled back dramatically, her cap nearly flying off in the process.

Grimm exhaled heavily, a long-suffering sigh of a man regretting every single life choice that led him here.

He turned forward, focused once again on the path ahead.

Mallory, however, was not done.

"Old man."

Grimm twitched.

"Old man, old man, old man, old man—"

A slow inhale.

"Old man, old man, old ma—"

Grimm's hand twitched.

For a brief, terrifying second, he considered tossing her into the stratosphere.

But then—

He stilled.

His demeanor shifted.

His posture straightened.

Mallory immediately noticed.

Something in the air changed.

The wind was no longer playful. It became sharper, colder.

Her joking chant died as she, too, turned forward—only to find figures approaching.

Grimm and Mallory came to a halt.

The other figures—distant at first—had now taken notice of them.

Grimm's mind immediately recalled the names displayed upon that screen.

("Mai Liu Yang, Princess Astrid, and Lukas Stark.")

His eyes flicked over them, assessing.

("That woman is a general...")

His gaze locked onto Mai, who stood at the forefront, her body already tense, her frown deep-set.

("A princess...") Astrid's discomfort was evident, though it did not stem from his presence.

Then, finally—his gaze settled on Lukas.

("A brat from a renowned knight family.") Grimm barely resisted the urge to scoff.

Lukas' voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

"Princess, please focus your mind!"

Even as he spoke, a lingering pain flashed across his face. His wounds had healed, yet something still stung.

Grimm cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders.

"Seems we actually have to pull our weight." His tone was calm, almost casual.

At his side, however, Mallory was transfixed. Her green eyes were not on their opponents.

Rather—they were glued to Mai's chest.

A solid smack echoed as Grimm's palm struck the back of her head, nearly sending her cap flying.

"Handle that Stark brat."

Mallory rubbed the back of her head, unfazed.

Instead, she gave him a knowing look.

"Hm. Keeping the women to yourself. Are you perhaps a pervert?"

A flick—to her face.

"Oof!"

The three watching sweatdropped.

Yet—despite the sheer absurdity—

The aura Grimm exuded remained unmistakable.