The world tilted.
One moment, Valerian cavalry thundered down the slope—hooves churning snow, lances gleaming like icicles. The next, every single soldier froze mid-charge. Horses hung suspended in air, their manes caught in a wind that no longer moved. Spells glittered half-formed in the air above the Dargath mages' staffs, trapped like flies in amber. Even the ogres' roars died in their throats, their massive bodies locked in place as if turned to stone.
Yoshiya stumbled back, his eyes wide as he reached for the mana currents he'd spent years learning to read. This isn't magic—it's surgery. Where natural energy should have flowed like water, it now moved in rigid channels, siphoned and redirected with a precision that made his healer's heart ache.
"Disco party, Masaboru? Really?" someone laughed—one of the Division, the man who'd been flipping coins moments before.
The one leaning against the gateframe shrugged, his violet eyes glinting with light that seemed to come from within. "Efficient."
Yoshiya watched in horror as the air itself began to shimmer. Colors he'd never seen in natural magic—electric pink, acid green, shimmering purple—rippled across the frozen ranks like oil on water. It was beautiful in its way, this illusion Masaboru wove, but Yoshiya could feel the cost: every ounce of ambient mana in the valley was being pulled into the display, leaving nothing for healing, nothing for growth, nothing for life beyond this single, overwhelming act.
"Look," Omina whispered beside him, her voice tight as a drawn bowstring.
From the Division's ranks, the silent one—Shinjitsu, if Yoshiya remembered the sketches correctly—moved. Or rather, multiplied. Five identical figures materialized in perfect formation, each carrying a blade that caught the strange light of Masaboru's illusion. They sprinted forward in lockstep, their movements so synchronized they might have been parts of a single machine.
Omina tracked every step, every shift of weight, every angle of attack. She'd trained with masters in Orleaf, learned forms passed down through generations of warriors—but this was different. There was no art to it, no honor, no spark of life in their movements. It was combat reduced to mathematics, violence as harvest. One copy swept through a line of frozen archers, and where its blade passed, weapons and armor simply vanished in flashes of violet light—Zentake's work, Yoshiya realized, stealing even the physical properties of metal and wood.
Another pair moved with the fluid grace of water, slipping between soldiers as if they weren't there at all. Nogare, the one with the handshake carved on his pillar. Where he passed, commanders fell—not with dramatic wounds, but with thin red lines across their throats, as if death were an afterthought. Omina's grip on her sword hilt tightened until her knuckles were white. This wasn't fighting—it was culling.
Then the still one moved. Slowly. Painfully. Gaikotsu, his skull-mask turning to face a fallen Dargath warlord. He knelt, placed a hand on the corpse, and Yoshiya felt the mana shift again—darker this time, but not with malice. With purpose. The body twitched, then stood, its flesh peeling away to reveal a skeleton with eyes glowing the same eerie blue as the pillars. Another corpse rose. Then another. Soon a dozen undead warriors stood at attention, their movements mechanical, precise.
"The dead should rest," Omina said, her voice barely audible over the quiet hum of magic. "This isn't strength—it's theft of the final peace."
Yoshiya couldn't argue. As a healer, he'd always believed that even death had its purpose, its natural end. To pull souls—or what was left of them—back into service felt like a violation deeper than any wound he'd ever tended. He scanned the field for injuries he might mend, but found none on the Division's side. They moved through the frozen ranks like gardeners pruning dead growth, untouched, unharmed, utterly detached.
And then he saw Kaito.
He'd split off from the others, moving alone toward the Valerian commander—a man in polished steel armor, his banner still frozen halfway up its staff. Kaito's greatsword sang through the air, its black blade streaked with red and yellow like lightning. Yoshiya recognized the forms—Bustleburg Stance, Wolf's Leap, River's End—but they were wrong now. Stripped of their heart, their purpose twisted from protection to destruction.
The commander broke free of Masaboru's illusion for just a second, drawing his own sword with a cry of rage. Kaito met him with a movement that was both familiar and alien—all the speed Yoshiya remembered, but none of the warmth. Their blades clashed once, twice. Then Kaito stepped inside the man's guard, his sword finding the gap between helmet and gorget with surgical precision.
The commander fell. Kaito looked down at him, his gold eyes empty as polished stone. No triumph. No regret. Just… finality. He wiped a speck of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, and for a moment, Yoshiya thought he saw disappointment cross his face—as if even this had been too easy.
A single clap echoed across the valley. Masaboru pushed off the gateframe, his robes shifting to match the colors of his fading illusion. "Welcome to Eldoria," he called out, his voice carrying over the silent field. "Try not to track mud inside."
The frozen soldiers remained where they stood—statues marking the edge of the city's domain. The undead warriors formed a neat line, facing outward as if already on patrol. The Division turned as one, heading into the gates without a backward glance.
The panic in the refugee crowd had faded into something else—shock, awe, fear. Yoshiya felt hands pressing against his back, shoving him forward with the rest of the river of people. They weren't being led as saved souls. They weren't being welcomed as guests. They were being processed, herded like cattle into a pen, their worth already being measured by eyes they couldn't see.
Omina stepped close beside him, her hand finding his. The Berserk Necklace was cool again against her skin, but her eyes still held the sharp edge of battle. "We survived the end of the world," she murmured, her voice heavy with understanding. "Now we have to survive being saved."