It took him thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes to tear across a distance that normally took two full days of hard travel—roads, rest, detours, the slow grind of geography. Gildarts didn't do roads. He didn't do patience either.
But when he finally slowed, it wasn't because he was tired.
It was because the world ahead of him stopped making sense.
He came to a halt on the edge of a broken ridge, boots grinding stone into powder as he dug in and looked forward. The land ahead was gone—not destroyed, not cratered, but smothered. Fog stretched out as far as he could see, pale and thick and unmoving, swallowing trees, hills, and valleys alike. It wasn't rolling. It wasn't drifting.
It was parked there.
Miles of it.
Cold leaked from it in steady waves, enough that even Gildarts felt it creep under his skin. His instincts screamed—not danger exactly, but violation. Like magic was being bent into a shape it was never meant to take.
"…What the hell is this," he muttered.
If not for his enhanced senses—years of combat sharpening perception beyond normal limits—he might've thought there was nothing inside it at all. But he focused, pushed his awareness outward, and caught it.
A village.
Or what was left of one.
Broken rooftops. Burned structures. Ice clinging where fire should've erased everything. The faintest impression of movement… then nothing again, swallowed by fog.
Gildarts' jaw tightened.
He stepped forward once, then stopped himself and drew in a breath deep enough to steady his chest.
"Macao!" he shouted, voice ripping through the air. "WAKABA! DO YOU HEAR ME?"
The sound vanished into the fog.
No echo. No return. It was like the mist just ate it.
His hand curled into a fist.
"MACAO!" he yelled again, louder now, pouring magic into his voice without even thinking about it. "WAKABA! I NEED A SIGN—ANYTHING!"
Silence.
For a few long seconds, nothing happened.
The fog didn't stir. The cold didn't change. The village didn't answer.
Gildarts felt something ugly twist in his chest.
Then—
A flash.
Purple.
A single fireball punched straight up through the fog, burning a clean hole through the white nothingness before detonating high above it. Violet light bloomed against the night sky, unmistakable, violent, angry.
Gildarts didn't think.
He moved.
Crush Magic detonated beneath his feet as he launched forward, earth exploding behind him as he tore straight toward the flare's origin. The fog rushed up to meet him, swallowing his lower body first, then his chest, then everything.
Cold slammed into him like a wall.
Visibility dropped to almost nothing instantly. His breath fogged thick in front of his face, ice forming along his coat as he forced his way in, senses flaring as he pushed magic outward to compensate.
"Hang on," he growled, teeth clenched as he ran blind. "I'm here."
The fog pressed back, dense and heavy, trying to slow him, trying to hide whatever was deeper inside it. Somewhere ahead, something moved fast enough to disturb the air without sound.
Gildarts' eyes narrowed.
Purple fire had gone up for a reason.
And whatever was still moving in that fog hadn't finished yet.
The moment Gildarts crossed fully into the fog, he felt it.
Not a hit. Not an attack.
A gnawing.
It was subtle—almost polite in how it tried to go unnoticed—but it was there, a constant pressure tugging at the edges of his magic like something testing its teeth on him. Mana didn't drain all at once. It bled, slow and persistent, like cold seeping through armor you didn't realize had gaps.
"…So it's true," Gildarts muttered under his breath. "It bites."
He let his aura expand instinctively, magic pressure rolling outward from his body in a dense wave. The gnawing resisted for half a heartbeat—then recoiled, pushed back by sheer volume and force. The fog around him warped slightly, thinning just enough to breathe.
"Not today," he growled.
He broke into a run again, boots hammering frozen ground as he followed the lingering heat signature of the purple flare. Visibility was nearly zero now—everything reduced to vague shapes and motionless white—but his senses filled in what his eyes couldn't. Cracked stone underfoot. Burned wood half-frozen. The aftermath of a fight that had no business being this violent.
Then—
Something came flying out of the fog straight at him.
Fast.
Gildarts reacted on instinct.
He skidded to a stop hard enough to tear a trench through the ice, one hand snapping up as Crush Magic surged around his arm, space buckling as he prepared to pulverize whatever was about to collide with him.
But at the last possible second—
He felt it.
The weight. The rhythm. The unmistakable signature of a mage he'd known for years.
"…Macao?"
The Crush Magic vanished instantly.
Gildarts stepped forward and caught the object mid-air, arms absorbing the impact as his boots dug into the frozen ground again. The force nearly knocked the breath from him—but what hit him harder was what he was holding.
Macao.
Barely conscious.
His body was limp, blood soaking through torn clothing, frost clinging to his skin in places it shouldn't have been able to reach. One eye fluttered weakly, unfocused, while the other remained shut entirely. His breathing was shallow, uneven, each inhale rattling like it hurt.
"Hey—hey," Gildarts said quickly, grip tightening as he adjusted Macao's weight. "Stay with me, you hear?"
Macao's head lolled slightly. His lips moved.
"…Wakaba…" he rasped, barely audible.
Gildarts' jaw clenched.
He could feel it now—the damage beneath the surface. Magic pathways scraped raw, reserves chewed at by that fog. Internal injuries masked by ice. This wasn't the kind of state someone walked away from.
"Yeah," Gildarts said quietly, voice steady even as something ugly twisted in his chest. "I'm here. I've got you."
He shifted Macao carefully, bracing him against his shoulder, Crush Magic flowing just enough to support without crushing. His eyes lifted, scanning the fog ahead, senses stretching outward again.
The gnawing pressure crept back immediately, curious now. Interested.
Whatever was deeper in the fog had noticed him.
And it had already thrown Macao away like debris.
Gildarts tightened his hold, teeth grinding as he took a step forward, aura flaring just a little brighter.
"Alright," he murmured, more to the fog than anyone else. "Your turn to explain."
Somewhere ahead, the cold shifted.
And the fog kept closing in.
Just then a voice came over the fog and hope for his comrad possible future.
The fog shifted—parted—just enough for a voice to cut through it.
"Gildarts! I'm here!"
The shout rolled over the clearing like a lifeline thrown through a storm. "Give Macao and Wakaba to me and focus on your fight!"
Gildarts didn't hesitate. Not even a second.
He turned, muscles screaming as he threw Macao through the fog with controlled force, not reckless, not gentle—exactly enough. The mist split again, and for a brief moment the world was visible.
Makarov stood atop a ridge, already expanding, his hand growing massive as it swept forward and caught Macao mid-air like a falling child. Gildarts caught the glimpse of Porlyusica beside him—snarling, already barking orders, hands glowing as she started tearing into Macao's injuries without ceremony.
Then the fog slammed shut again.
The ground shuddered.
A sound rolled through the mist—deep, guttural, wrong.
A neigh.
Not the sound of an animal.
The sound of something that remembered being one.
Gildarts slowly turned.
The fog thinned ahead of him, and what stepped into view made his breath hitch despite himself.
An undead horse.
Fifteen meters tall, skeletal frame wrapped in frozen sinew and jagged armor-like ice. Its skull was elongated, hollow eye sockets burning with pale blue fire. Frost steamed from its nostrils with every breath, the air around it crystallizing instantly.
And hanging from its jaws—
"Wakaba…"
The pipe mage was barely conscious, body limp, bones bent at angles they shouldn't bend. Blood and frost matted his hair as the beast held him like prey.
Something snapped inside Gildarts.
Magic pressure exploded outward, the fog ripping away from his body as the ground beneath his feet fractured. Trees bowed, ice shattered, and the air itself seemed to recoil.
The horse didn't flinch.
It simply reared back—and threw Wakaba.
Gildarts moved.
He crossed the distance in a blink, caught Wakaba mid-flight, and slid across the ice on one knee as he set him down just hard enough to get him out of the line of fire.
"Stay down," Gildarts muttered, voice low and steady. "You've done enough."
Wakaba coughed weakly, trying to say something, but Gildarts was already turning back.
The horse charged.
The ground detonated beneath its hooves, ice erupting outward in massive shockwaves as it blurred forward with speed that had no business belonging to something that size. Gildarts braced—
—and a torrent of ice breath erupted from the horse's maw.
Not a stream. A wall.
A roaring, freezing wave that swallowed the clearing, flash-freezing trees, stone, and air alike. Gildarts slammed his fist into the ground.
"CRUSH!"
Space folded.
The ice wave imploded mid-air, collapsing inward under crushing force before exploding outward in a violent spray of shards. Gildarts burst through it, boots skidding as he closed in—
—but the horse was already gone.
It reappeared to his left, then his right, then above him, moving in brutal, impossible arcs. Its hooves slammed down, each impact sending circular waves of ice racing outward, turning the battlefield into a shifting minefield of frozen spikes and collapsing ground.
Gildarts took a hit to the shoulder, ice crawling instantly over his arm. He snarled, flexed—
—and shattered it with raw magic.
"Fast bastard," he growled.
The horse reared again and slammed its forelegs down, releasing an AOE blast that turned the ground into a frozen crater. Gildarts leapt back just as jagged ice spears erupted upward, missing his legs by inches.
He didn't retreat further.
Instead, he ran into it.
Crush Magic wrapped around his arms as he jumped, grabbing one of the horse's massive legs mid-charge. Space warped violently as he crushed the limb inward, ice and bone screaming under pressure.
The horse shrieked, twisting violently, whipping its head around and blasting point-blank ice breath. Gildarts took it head-on, boots digging trenches as the cold slammed into him, freezing his beard and cracking his coat.
He laughed once. Low. Dangerous.
"Yeah," he said through the frost. "That's more like it."
The horse ripped free, bounding backward, frost flaring brighter as it prepared another charge—ice spiraling around its body, magic building higher, denser.
Gildarts straightened, rolling his shoulder, magic pressure rising again as the fog churned wildly around them.
Behind him, Wakaba lay unmoving but breathing.
Ahead of him, the undead horse pawed the ground, ice screaming as it prepared to tear the clearing apart again.
Neither of them slowed.
Neither of them backed off.
The fog closed in tighter around the battlefield as both sides moved again, faster, harder, the clash far from over and still unfolding beat by beat.
The horse didn't give him room to breathe.
It vanished in a burst of frost and reappeared behind him, hooves slamming down with enough force to buckle the ground. Ice rippled outward in concentric waves, turning shattered earth into jagged terrain meant to slow, trap, and break anything caught in it.
Gildarts twisted out of the worst of it, coat ripping as ice grazed his side. He landed hard, rolled once, came up already moving—eyes flicking not just to the monster in front of him, but to Wakaba lying too close for comfort.
Too close.
The horse noticed the same thing.
Its skull snapped toward Wakaba, blue fire flaring brighter as it drew in a breath. Frost condensed instantly around its mouth, the temperature dropping so fast the air cracked.
"No you don't," Gildarts muttered.
He surged forward, Crush Magic roaring around his arm as he slammed his fist into the ground. Space folded violently, collapsing the ice breath inward just as it fired. The blast detonated sideways instead, ripping a frozen trench through the clearing and showering everything in shards.
That bought him half a second.
It was enough.
Gildarts sprinted, scooped Wakaba up one-handed like he weighed nothing, and didn't stop moving. The horse charged again, its speed obscene for something that large, ice exploding under its hooves as it closed the gap.
Gildarts threw Wakaba.
Not upward. Not straight.
Sideways, toward the thinning edge of the fog—toward where he knew Makarov had been moments earlier.
"FLY," he growled.
Wakaba's body sailed through the mist, spinning once before disappearing completely.
The horse screamed.
Not in pain—in rage.
It pivoted instantly, abandoning Gildarts mid-charge to pursue, ice magic surging as it prepared another breath attack to obliterate whatever Wakaba had been thrown toward.
Gildarts planted his feet.
"Eyes on me."
He slammed both hands forward, Crush Magic erupting in a massive, invisible wall that caught the horse mid-stride. Space screamed as the creature slammed into it, momentum folding inward and detonating outward in a violent shockwave.
The impact tore trees out of the ground and sent ice spiraling skyward.
The horse staggered back, hooves gouging deep trenches as it fought to regain balance.
Gildarts didn't let up.
He crossed the distance again in a blink, leapt, and drove his fist straight into the side of the horse's skull. Crush Magic detonated point-blank, warping space inward and tearing chunks of ice and bone free.
The beast reeled, blue fire flickering wildly in its eyes.
Behind Gildarts, the fog thinned just enough for him to hear it—
Makarov's voice, distant but furious, barking orders.
Good.
That meant Wakaba had made it.
Gildarts exhaled once, slow and controlled, and turned fully back to the undead horse as it lowered its head again, frost pouring off it in violent waves.
"Alright," he said quietly, rolling his neck as magic pressure surged higher. "Now it's just you and me."
The horse pawed the ground, ice screaming as it prepared another charge.
Gildarts smiled—small, dangerous, and very much not done yet—and stepped forward to meet it as the battlefield continued to tear itself apart around them.
The opening came fast—and Gildarts took it.
The horse lunged again, too aggressive now, too committed. Ice flared along its ribs as it twisted mid-charge, trying to rake him with a frozen foreleg, but Gildarts stepped into the attack instead of away from it. Crush Magic surged through his shoulder and down his arm as he drove a straight punch into the creature's chest.
The impact didn't sound like a hit.
It sounded like the world folding.
Space collapsed inward around his fist, ice and bone compressing violently before detonating outward. The undead horse let out a shriek that rattled the fog itself as its massive body was hurled backward, skidding across frozen ground, tearing up trenches as it disappeared into the white.
Gildarts didn't chase immediately.
He stood there, chest rising and falling, boots planted in shattered ice. Frost clung to his coat, his beard, his knuckles—but his eyes stayed sharp, locked on the fog where the thing had vanished.
"…Got you," he muttered.
Silence answered him.
No hooves.
No breath.
No movement tearing through the fog.
The battlefield felt wrong without the noise.
Gildarts frowned and closed his eyes for a split second, pushing his magic outward—wide, deliberate, the way he'd done a thousand times before. Normally, he'd feel everything: distortions, resistance, pressure, the telltale pull of hostile mana.
This time—
Nothing.
His eyes snapped open.
"…What?"
He pushed harder, aura flaring brighter as Crush Magic rolled outward in invisible waves.
Still nothing.
No signature. No mass. No hostile presence.
Instead, he felt the fog push back.
Not aggressively. Not violently.
Like a wall being moved closer.
Gildarts became aware of it all at once—the way the fog no longer stretched endlessly ahead of him, the way sound felt muffled tighter than before, the way his breath echoed too quickly, like the space around him had shrunk.
He looked around.
The fog wasn't everywhere anymore.
It was closing in.
A few meters in every direction. Ten at most. A tight, suffocating ring of white that cut off sight, sound, and sense alike. Beyond it, his magic couldn't reach. It wasn't being blocked—it was being redirected, bent back toward him.
"…You're isolating me," Gildarts said quietly.
The fog shifted.
Not parting. Not retreating.
Circling.
Somewhere beyond the veil, ice crunched once.
Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.
Gildarts rolled his shoulders, keeping his stance loose despite the tension creeping into his spine. "Yeah," he murmured, eyes tracking the movement he couldn't see. "I figured you wouldn't stay down that easy."
He took one step forward—and the fog took one with him.
Matched.
Measured.
The space around him tightened another notch, close enough now that the cold felt heavier, denser, like pressure rather than temperature.
Whatever he'd knocked back hadn't fled.
It had repositioned.
And now it wasn't charging blindly anymore.
It was hunting from inside the fog.
The warning came a heartbeat too late.
Every hair on the back of Gildarts' neck stood on end at once, that old, familiar itch screaming danger before thought could catch up. He didn't turn. Didn't hesitate. Instinct took the wheel.
Crush Magic flooded his arm.
He pivoted on his heel and drove his fist backward into the fog, space buckling around his knuckles as pressure condensed to a lethal point.
She burst out of the mist at the exact same moment.
Not stumbling. Not charging wildly.
Perfect form.
A woman—beautiful in that sharp, unreal way that didn't belong to battlefields—rushed him with terrifying speed, her body low and fluid, blade already mid-swing. The sword glowed with ice magic so dense it looked solid, frost crawling along its length and shedding shards with every movement.
They met.
They didn't touch.
Fist and blade stopped inches apart, suspended by raw power alone.
The collision wasn't metal on flesh—it was force on force. Crush Magic slammed into compressed ice mana, and the air between them screamed as it was caught, folded, and rejected.
Then the shockwave hit.
The ground beneath them didn't crack—it vanished. Stone evaporated upward in sheets as the pressure rose and fell in violent pulses, the earth buckling like water struck by a god's hand. Trees were ripped free at the roots and flung end over end. Ice shattered instantly, then reformed, then shattered again as the wave tore outward.
The fog was blown apart in a massive ring, ripped back for dozens of meters and leaving the battlefield exposed under the night sky.
Gildarts slid back a full step, boots gouging trenches through bare rock where soil had once been. His arm vibrated from the impact, magic humming violently under his skin. He grinned despite himself, teeth bared.
"Hah… so that's you."
The woman didn't answer.
Her feet touched down lightly as she flipped backward, landing without a sound. Ice mist curled around her blade as she straightened, posture relaxed, eyes locked on him now—sharp, focused, present. No emptiness this time. No distance.
Just intent.
She shifted her grip and the temperature dropped instantly, frost racing outward from her boots in branching veins. The fog rushed back in at the edges, drawn toward the cold like something obedient.
Gildarts rolled his shoulder once, Crush Magic settling heavier around his fists. "Yeah," he muttered, eyes never leaving her. "That's more like it."
She moved again—faster than before.
Not straight at him.
Around him.
She vanished to his left, reappeared mid-air to his right, blade carving a crescent of ice that detonated against the ground where he'd been standing a split second earlier. Gildarts twisted through the blast, shards tearing past his coat as he answered with a wide, crushing backhand.
She slipped under it, spine bending unnaturally as the punch passed overhead, then kicked off the ground and skated backward on ice she formed beneath her feet in real time.
The battlefield kept breaking.
Every step they took rewrote it—rock crushed into nothing under Gildarts' weight, frost sealing and splitting it again under her magic. The air between them pulsed, pressure rising and falling like the world was breathing too hard.
Neither slowed.
Neither backed off.
They circled once more, fog curling in at the edges again, ice and crushed stone drifting in the air between them as both prepared to move—
—and the space between them tightened, like the fight itself was pulling them closer whether they were ready or not.
The warning came a heartbeat too late.
Every hair on the back of Gildarts' neck stood on end at once, that old, familiar itch screaming danger before thought could catch up. He didn't turn. Didn't hesitate. Instinct took the wheel.
Crush Magic flooded his arm.
He pivoted on his heel and drove his fist backward into the fog, space buckling around his knuckles as pressure condensed to a lethal point.
She burst out of the mist at the exact same moment.
Not stumbling. Not charging wildly.
Perfect form.
A woman—beautiful in that sharp, unreal way that didn't belong to battlefields—rushed him with terrifying speed, her body low and fluid, blade already mid-swing. The sword glowed with ice magic so dense it looked solid, frost crawling along its length and shedding shards with every movement.
They met.
They didn't touch.
Fist and blade stopped inches apart, suspended by raw power alone.
The collision wasn't metal on flesh—it was force on force. Crush Magic slammed into compressed ice mana, and the air between them screamed as it was caught, folded, and rejected.
Then the shockwave hit.
The ground beneath them didn't crack—it vanished. Stone evaporated upward in sheets as the pressure rose and fell in violent pulses, the earth buckling like water struck by a god's hand. Trees were ripped free at the roots and flung end over end. Ice shattered instantly, then reformed, then shattered again as the wave tore outward.
The fog was blown apart in a massive ring, ripped back for dozens of meters and leaving the battlefield exposed under the night sky.
Gildarts slid back a full step, boots gouging trenches through bare rock where soil had once been. His arm vibrated from the impact, magic humming violently under his skin. He grinned despite himself, teeth bared.
"Hah… so that's you."
The woman didn't answer.
Her feet touched down lightly as she flipped backward, landing without a sound. Ice mist curled around her blade as she straightened, posture relaxed, eyes locked on him now—sharp, focused, present. No emptiness this time. No distance.
Just intent.
She shifted her grip and the temperature dropped instantly, frost racing outward from her boots in branching veins. The fog rushed back in at the edges, drawn toward the cold like something obedient.
Gildarts rolled his shoulder once, Crush Magic settling heavier around his fists. "Yeah," he muttered, eyes never leaving her. "That's more like it."
She moved again—faster than before.
Not straight at him.
Around him.
She vanished to his left, reappeared mid-air to his right, blade carving a crescent of ice that detonated against the ground where he'd been standing a split second earlier. Gildarts twisted through the blast, shards tearing past his coat as he answered with a wide, crushing backhand.
She slipped under it, spine bending unnaturally as the punch passed overhead, then kicked off the ground and skated backward on ice she formed beneath her feet in real time.
The battlefield kept breaking.
Every step they took rewrote it—rock crushed into nothing under Gildarts' weight, frost sealing and splitting it again under her magic. The air between them pulsed, pressure rising and falling like the world was breathing too hard.
Neither slowed.
Neither backed off.
They circled once more, fog curling in at the edges again, ice and crushed stone drifting in the air between them as both prepared to move—
—and the space between them tightened, like the fight itself was pulling them closer whether they were ready or not.
The thought hit him mid-movement.
Gildarts slid back from another near miss, boots grinding over fractured stone as ice snapped shut where he'd been standing a breath ago. He didn't press the advantage right away. Instead, he watched.
Really watched.
Up close, with the fog blown thin and the pressure settled just enough to think, something felt… off.
Her eyes weren't on him.
Not really.
They were open, sharp, reflecting light and motion—but they didn't lock. They drifted past his shoulders, through him, like he was just another obstacle in the way of whatever path her body had already chosen.
"…You're not even here, are you," he muttered under his breath.
The next exchange confirmed it.
She lunged again, blade sweeping in a clean diagonal arc, ice magic roaring along the edge. Gildarts stepped inside the swing, crushed the space where her follow-up should have been—and felt nothing. No resistance. No correction.
She didn't adapt.
She just… continued.
Her foot slipped half an inch on uneven ground, a mistake so small most people would miss it. Her shoulder over-rotated a fraction too far. Elegant, fluid, deadly—
—but wild underneath.
An untrained eye would call it beautiful swordplay. Almost dance-like.
Gildarts saw the cracks.
There was no intent behind the strikes. No malice. No calculation. Not even anger. Just motion chasing motion, reactions chained together without thought, like a beast following scent rather than strategy.
"That's why," he realized.
Every time he'd reacted in time—every time he'd blocked or countered at the last possible instant—it hadn't been because she'd telegraphed the attack.
It was the ice.
The blade's magic screamed.
Every swing flooded the air with cold mana so dense it rang like a bell to his senses. That was the only reason he'd been able to keep up at all—his instincts catching the surge of ice magic a fraction before steel arrived.
Strip that away…
He tested it.
On the next charge, he didn't move toward her.
He stepped off-line and suppressed his aura completely, letting his magic sink inward, dull and quiet. For half a second, the ice blade flashed past where his chest had been—
—and she didn't adjust.
The strike continued through empty space, overextended, her balance tipping just enough to force a recovery step.
Gildarts' eyes narrowed.
No correction. No awareness.
"…You're on rails," he said quietly. "Running on something else's momentum."
She turned back toward him, sword already rising again, expression still blank. Still distant. Still empty of recognition.
Not possessed.
Not controlled.
Disengaged.
Like her body had been left on, while whatever should've been inside wasn't holding the reins.
The fog stirred again, reacting to her movement, curling closer like a living boundary tightening around them.
Gildarts rolled his neck once, loosening his shoulders as Crush Magic shifted, no longer flaring wildly—just ready.
"Alright," he murmured, eyes tracking not her face, but her feet, her shoulders, the tiny imperfections in motion. "If you're not choosing your strikes…"
He took a slow step forward, deliberately dulling his magic sense, forcing himself to read her instead of the blade.
"…then let's see what happens when I stop listening to the ice."
She moved again—fast, fluid, blade gleaming—
—and this time, Gildarts didn't react to the magic at all.
Gildarts didn't rush her.
He planted his foot and stomped.
Crush Magic detonated straight down into the ground, space folding inward for a split second before rebounding violently. Ice shattered like glass beneath him, the frozen earth collapsing into nothing as the shockwave ripped outward in a jagged ring.
The ground gave way.
The sudden loss of footing launched the woman upward, her body carried by momentum rather than intent. She flipped instinctively, limbs moving on reflex alone, sword flashing as she twisted in midair.
She slashed.
Not at him.
Near him.
The ice-imbued blade tore through empty space where Gildarts had been moments ago, carving a crescent of frost that detonated against the far edge of the clearing. Trees froze solid and exploded apart in a storm of shards.
Gildarts hadn't moved an inch.
He stood there, arms relaxed at his sides, watching.
The attack passed harmlessly by.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
"…Yeah," he murmured. "You didn't see me."
She landed lightly, boots skidding across broken stone, sword already coming back around in another fluid motion. Beautiful form. Perfect balance. No wasted movement.
But still—no correction.
No hesitation.
No awareness.
She kept attacking the last place he'd been, following a pattern burned into her body rather than reacting to the present moment. The ice flared again, magic surging outward like a signal flare screaming her position to his senses.
Gildarts exhaled slowly.
There was nothing behind those eyes.
Not rage. Not focus. Not intent.
Just execution.
Like a weapon left swinging after the hand let go.
"She's not tracking me," he realized. "She's tracking the ice."
That explained everything.
Every time he'd been forced to react at the last instant, it wasn't her timing—it was the blade's magic screaming through the fog, tripping his instincts a heartbeat before impact. Take that away, dull his own magic sense, and she was striking ghosts.
Still…
He watched her closely as she moved again, skating across freshly formed ice, chaining motions together with terrifying consistency. For someone not consciously fighting, she was keeping pace with him far better than most trained mages ever could.
"…You're impressive," he admitted quietly. "Even like this."
He stepped in close this time, letting her swing pass just wide, and caught her wrist—not crushing it, just holding.
The contact told him everything.
There was no monstrous strength there. No enhanced physique. No unnatural density in her muscles. She strained against his grip, but it was the strength of a normal mage—fit, trained, but nowhere near overwhelming.
Ability-focused.
Speed. Ice. Technique.
A sword mage, through and through.
That was what worried him.
Because if this was her unfocused—running on instinct, half-aware, guided only by residual magic and momentum—
Then whatever she could do when she was actually present…
When those eyes sharpened.
When intent returned.
Gildarts released her wrist and stepped back as she flowed into another motion, blade flashing past where his head had been.
"Yeah," he muttered, eyes narrowing, Crush Magic settling heavier around his frame. "That version of you?"
He shifted his stance, grounding himself as the fog crept closer again, tighter now, colder.
"That's the one I don't want to meet unprepared."
She moved again—still wild, still empty—but faster now, ice flaring brighter as the space between them kept shrinking, the fight continuing to spiral forward without pause.
The fog recoiled as she raised her blade.
Ice magic flooded outward, no longer focused into clean strikes but released in wide, indiscriminate waves. The ground whitened instantly, frost racing across broken stone and shattered earth as jagged ice pillars tore their way up from below. The air itself hardened, every breath turning sharp and painful.
She wasn't aiming anymore.
She was erasing space.
Gildarts felt it immediately—the way the battlefield stopped being a place you could stand and started being something that tried to kill you just for existing in it. He didn't back off. He stomped again, Crush Magic ripping through the ice in violent bursts, pulverizing frozen terrain before it could lock him down.
Ice surged.
Ground vanished.
Fog screamed.
He kept moving, not fast—precise. Every step crushed a pocket of space flat, denying the ice a surface to spread from. Every swing of her blade sent walls of frost tearing through the clearing, and every time, Gildarts answered by collapsing them mid-formation, turning towering ice constructs into airborne shrapnel before they could solidify.
She spun, blade carving a full circle.
The temperature dropped catastrophically.
A massive AOE bloom detonated outward, a frozen shockwave that flash-froze everything it touched—trees, debris, fog itself. For a moment the entire battlefield looked like a crystal grave.
Gildarts punched the ground.
"CRUSH."
The frozen wave imploded.
Ice disintegrated into powder as the space it occupied folded inward, the shock tearing open the clearing again in a violent collapse. Gildarts burst through the debris cloud, coat shredded, breath steaming, eyes locked on her.
She was already moving.
Her body bent low, then high, skating across newly formed ice that didn't exist a second earlier. Blades of frost erupted behind her, ahead of her, above her—layers upon layers of overlapping AOE attacks meant to overwhelm, to drown everything in cold and motion.
Still no intent.
Still no focus.
Just escalation.
Gildarts ground his teeth. "You're dangerous like this… but sloppy."
He stopped hiding his movement for half a second.
That was all it took.
She reacted instantly to the spike of pressure—too instantly—sword flashing toward where his magic had been rather than where he actually stood. Gildarts stepped inside the swing, shoulder brushing past her as ice screamed past his back.
He turned and threw the punch on instinct.
Crush Magic wrapped his fist so tightly space warped around it.
The impact landed.
Not explosive. Not flashy.
Just absolute.
Her head snapped to the side as the compressed force detonated on contact, the pressure rippling through her skull rather than outward. She was hurled backward, body skidding across broken ice before crashing into the remains of a frozen tree.
For the first time—
She reacted.
Her body went still.
The fog thinned slightly, like it was holding its breath.
Her eyes focused.
Really focused.
Sharp violet snapped onto Gildarts, pupils contracting, breath hitching as awareness slammed back into her all at once. Confusion flickered across her face—followed by pain, fear, and something dangerously close to recognition.
"…Wh—" she started.
Gildarts froze.
Not out of mercy.
Out of shock.
"There you are," he muttered, barely audible.
For one fragile second, she was there.
Then it shattered.
Her expression twisted violently, awareness ripping away as if torn out by force. Her body jerked, ice magic exploding uncontrollably as she screamed—a sound raw, broken, not fully human.
The fog surged inward.
Her eyes went empty again.
Wilder than before.
Ice detonated outward in every direction, an uncontrolled storm that tore the clearing apart, frost and debris flung skyward as the ground collapsed in overlapping waves. Gildarts barely got his guard up in time, Crush Magic flaring as he was driven backward by the blast.
He skidded to a stop, boots carving trenches through shattered stone.
"…So you are in there," he said quietly, eyes never leaving her as she rose from the wreckage, blade shaking in her grip, ice pouring off her like blood. "And something doesn't want you awake."
She charged again—faster, more erratic, AOE attacks overlapping so densely the battlefield barely had gaps left to stand in.
Gildarts squared his shoulders, magic pressure rising again as he crushed another wave of ice out of existence.
"Alright," he growled, stance settling, eyes sharper now. "Now we're getting somewhere."
The fog tightened.
Ice screamed.
And the fight kept moving, spiraling forward with no pause, no clean edge—only momentum dragging both of them deeper into whatever this really was.
The fog tore itself apart as they closed the distance.
No spells. No range. No tricks.
Just bodies and magic slammed straight into each other.
She came in low and fast, blade already moving, ice magic fused so tightly into the steel it left a screaming wake in the air. Gildarts didn't bother stepping back—he stepped in, Crush Magic coiling around his arm as he swung.
They passed each other in a blur.
Steel kissed flesh.
Cold exploded across Gildarts' side as the blade carved through his coat and bit into him, ice blooming instantly around the wound, freezing blood before it could spill. He sucked in a sharp breath, boots skidding as the impact twisted his torso.
At the same time—
His fist landed.
Crush Magic detonated point-blank into her gut, not outward, not flashy—inward. Space folded into her core and released all at once. The sound was deep and ugly, like the world coughing.
Her body folded around the punch and she was launched backward, skidding across ice, coughing hard as frost shattered beneath her.
Neither stayed down.
She rolled, came up on one knee, blade already rising again, eyes wild now—still empty, but sharper, more frantic. Ice crawled up her arm as she pushed off the ground and rushed him again, movements less clean, more desperate.
Gildarts grinned despite the blood freezing against his ribs.
"Yeah," he muttered, rolling his shoulder. "That woke you up a little."
They collided again.
Her sword came in tight, fast, aimed for his neck. He caught the flat of the blade on his forearm, Crush Magic screaming as it compressed the ice magic instead of shattering it outright. The force rattled up his bones, numbing his arm, but he held long enough to drive a knee up into her ribs.
Ice burst outward.
She snarled—not a word, not a scream—just raw sound as she twisted, letting the impact roll through her body instead of stopping it. Her elbow cracked into his jaw, snapping his head sideways, followed by a short, brutal slash that ripped across his shoulder.
Gildarts staggered half a step.
Then laughed.
"Still light," he said, voice rough, not mocking—measuring.
He surged forward again, fists moving like wrecking balls, every strike wrapped in controlled collapse. She slipped and twisted between them, blade flashing, ice screaming with every movement. Cuts opened along his arms and side, shallow but vicious, freezing as fast as they formed.
He didn't slow.
He pressed.
A hook crushed past her guard and clipped her shoulder, folding space hard enough to send a shock through her whole frame. She stumbled, recovered, and answered with a brutal upward slash that caught his side again, ice biting deeper this time.
They were breathing hard now.
Fog churned violently around them, drawn in by cold and pressure alike. The ground beneath their feet no longer stayed solid for more than a heartbeat—ice forming, shattering, reforming as Crush Magic and frost fought for dominance.
She lunged again, blade raised for a killing strike.
Gildarts stepped inside it and drove his fist into her stomach again, Crush Magic roaring as it collapsed space inward.
The impact lifted her clean off her feet.
She crashed down hard, sliding across broken ice, coughing, fingers clawing at the ground as she tried to rise.
Gildarts stood there, chest heaving, blood steaming faintly where frost cracked away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on her as she forced herself upright again, blade shaking slightly now.
"…You're tough," he said quietly. Not impressed. Not angry. Just honest. "Too tough for someone who's not even steering."
She raised her sword again anyway.
Ice flared.
The fog tightened.
And both of them moved again, battered, bleeding, and still very much in the fight as it kept grinding forward with no intention of letting either one stop.