Trinity of Magic

The smile immediately dropped from the woman’s face.

Whatever satisfaction she had gained from her petty act vanished in the face of that grim reality.

Her vendetta had cost her. Time. Men. Momentum. Perhaps even the operation itself.

Zeke watched in grim satisfaction as the realization settled over her.

But she quickly hid her expression, returning her face to a mask of neutrality.

“So what?” she said calmly. “Do you really think the Legion cannot stomach such minor losses? At worst, I’ll get a reprimand, but it will be completely overshadowed by the achievement of killing the traitor Ezekiel.”

Zeke listened quietly.

“…And don’t think this will end with you,” she continued. “Your family is safe only because you are useful. Because your little title still shields them. Once you’re dead, that protection dies with you. Or do you honestly believe that, even after your death, that old fool Midas won’t jump at the chance to sell them to us?”

A slow grin returned to her face. It seemed the mere thought of hurting his family was enough to put her in a good mood.

“The Empire doesn’t forgive treason,” she continued. “From the moment you decided to act against your home, the fate of your entire bloodline was already sealed.”

Zeke’s expression didn’t change. Her venomous words slid off him without finding purchase.

“The achievement of killing me?” he repeated in a mocking voice. “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? Do you not see me standing here, safe and sound?”

The woman sneered. “Cut the nonsense. Do you think I cannot see your state? Your Core is fried, your mind exhausted. You hit your limits long ago. I bet even standing straight is putting an enormous burden on you.”

Upon hearing her words, Zeke’s face broke into a small smile.

“All true,” he said calmly. “And yet, I am still beyond your ability to handle. What does that say about you?”

The woman remained quiet for a moment, her face unreadable.

The troops behind her had gone silent, with even the injured suppressing their groans. They knew their leader well enough to recognize that she had been truly angered this time.

She pressed her lips into a thin line and began to walk forward at a steady gait, heading toward Zeke.

“Did you know…” she began in a low voice, “there is a standing order to bring you in alive if at all possible.”

Zeke watched her draw closer without a change in expression.

“It is an order from the very top, and even I won’t be able to escape punishment for going against it.”

In the next moment, her right hand was engulfed in a thin layer of pure white flames.

Zeke recognized the technique. [Burning Touch], a close-combat spell that concentrated heat so tightly above the skin that it was said to burn through almost anything. But the spell was most famous for something else. Its localized, controlled nature allowed it to inflict wounds without killing the victim too quickly.

She slowly raised her hand, bringing it level with Zeke’s chest, just over where his heart was.

“…But some things,” she continued, drawing extremely close, “are worth enduring even that for.”

Zeke could feel the heat radiating off her palm. It was only about an arm’s length from his chest now. Judging by the amount of Mana contained in that spell, if it touched him, her hand would pass through his skin like a hot knife through butter.

All she needed to do now was reach out, and she could grab his heart, turning it to ash.

Her orders meant nothing anymore. She had considered the consequences and chosen revenge anyway.

But despite knowing all that, and even after seeing the murderous look in her eyes, Zeke didn’t panic. Not even the smile on his face had vanished. He simply looked at her hand with an almost bemused expression.

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Seeing that relaxed attitude, even in the face of his impending death, the last threads of reason in the woman’s mind snapped.

She pulled back her hand, as if winding up a punch, but instead of forming a fist, her fingers splayed like talons. It was clear that she intended to snatch the heart from his chest.

With a cruel, almost manic glint in her eyes, her hand shot forward, aimed at the center of Zeke’s rib cage. The attack was so fast that most people wouldn’t even have been able to follow it with their eyes.

And yet, before the hand could touch his skin, it was blocked.

Something had gripped her wrist mid-attack, stopping it from advancing any further.

Both Zeke and the Archmage looked down at her caught wrist. There, they found a large hand, clearly that of a man. But the most notable thing about it was its color.

Pure black.

This was not a natural complexion. Not skin darkened by sun or bloodline, but a color so deep that it seemed to drink in the light around it, sending nothing back. If snow held the purest shade of white, then this was its polar opposite.

And yet, aside from the color, the hand looked perfectly normal. There was not the slightest abnormality to it.

It was not attached to Zeke, but came from a figure standing right behind him.

Realizing that a new combatant had appeared at the last moment, once again saving Zeke’s life, the Archmage’s eyes flashed with anger. She violently jerked her arm back.

To her utter shock, the hand holding her didn’t budge.

She began to struggle, but it was no use. Her feet sank into the ground, carving deep furrows, yet the hand remained perfectly still.

“Enough,” a deep voice said behind him.

Zeke watched as the woman was lifted into the air, unable to offer even a meaningful struggle. A moment later, she was brought down again, crashing into the ground with the force of a catapulted boulder.

Dust and broken stone rose around the crater.

The scene descended into silence. Neither the Archmage, swallowed by the crater of her own impact, nor the remaining troops, standing less than two dozen steps away, dared to breathe too loudly.

In that tense atmosphere, Zeke finally allowed himself to release the breath he had been holding.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, seemingly to nobody in particular.

The darkness answered.

“Apologies,” it said in that same voice. “I’ve caused you trouble.”

Speaking those words, the figure that had been standing just behind Zeke finally moved. It stepped past his left shoulder and came into view.

Though Zeke had already known who was behind him thanks to his spatial awareness, he still wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

An unfamiliar man stood before him, half a head taller than even Zeke, then turned around to face him.

The first thing anyone would notice was that everything about him was black. His skin, his hair, even the teeth inside his mouth. The only exception was his irises, which gleamed like flickering embers.

Aside from that, every proportion of his face was flawless. The angles, the bone structure, the balance between softness and masculinity. Not even a master sculptor could have carved a more perfect appearance, defined without being harsh, beautiful without losing its edge.

It was a body so utterly devoid of flaws that it appeared almost inhuman.

After a moment of shock, Zeke broke into a wide smile. “Welcome back, Vulcanos.”

The man, Vulcanos, was inspecting Zeke as well. His burning gaze lingered on the remnants of Zeke’s torn robes before settling on the areas where his skin was still missing. Zeke didn’t have the strength left to empower his healing, leaving much of his body in the agonizing state of being only half regrown.

Currently, many parts of him looked terrible, as if an amateur butcher had tried to flay him, only to quit halfway.

A flicker of emotion passed through Vulcanos’s glowing eyes. Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee, bowing his head deeply. “Master, because of me… you… this…”

Zeke slowly raised his hand. Even that gesture took more out of him than he liked to admit, but he bore it stoically. Gently, he placed his palm on top of Vulcanos’s bowed head.

The sensation was surprisingly soft. It didn’t feel like he was touching hair, but as if he had laid his hand on the downy feathers of a baby bird. Compared to the coarse, almost wiry hair the Chimeroi had had before, the change was like night and day.

Zeke didn’t say anything. He knew words would not be enough to absolve Vulcanos of his guilt. For somebody as devoted as him, there could be nothing worse than failing to protect his master.

In the next moment, the ground beside them exploded. The crater in which the Archmage had disappeared turned into a bonfire so large that it seemed to touch the clouds.

Out of that fire stepped a woman. Her clothes were dirty and torn in places, but she seemed otherwise uninjured. Even so, her face was distorted with anger. It was the most furious Zeke had ever seen her.

“You stinking beast,” she roared. “How many times are you going to get in my way?”

Zeke felt Vulcanos’s body stiffen under his hand. Then, the Chimeroi slowly rose to his full height and turned around.

“Just once more,” Vulcanos said in that smooth, bassy voice. Though his words sounded calm, Zeke heard an undertone of something else there, like the smoldering pressure building deep underground, ready to erupt. It was a promise of violence and death.

Zeke looked at his back, a slight unease forming in the pit of his stomach. Though Vulcanos had evolved, he wasn’t sure how much of his new power the Chimeroi had been able to grasp in such a short time. It usually wasn’t wise to fight a dangerous opponent before even familiarizing oneself with the changes to one’s own body.

“Be careful,” Zeke cautioned. “She has already mastered full Elementalization.”

Vulcanos turned his head halfway, giving him a toothy grin. “Sounds delicious.”

When Zeke’s expression remained unchanged, the grin slowly faded from his face. Vulcanos flexed his fingers once, as if listening to something only he could feel.

“Don’t worry, Master,” he said seriously. “I won’t allow her to touch a single hair on your head ever again.”

Vulcanos turned forward again, facing the furious Archmage and her troop of elite Mages calmly.

“Even together,” he said, his voice brimming with confidence, “they couldn’t touch the dirt on my feet.”