Outside the perimeters of space, isolated from time itself, a massive cube of purple and gold light floated in the endless void — vast enough to rival the size of two Earths combined.
Stars glimmered faintly in the distance, their light bending and fading near the cube's surface, as if reality itself refused to exist too close to it.
Inside this colossal construct resided the most powerful being in existence — the one who, in a distant and fated future, would bring about the destruction of all creation.
The interior of the cube was filled with towering egg-like structures, each as large as a skyscraper, glowing faintly with veins
of golden light.
At the very center, seated upon a throne of shifting amethyst mist, was the being known as The One.
A swirl of violet fog appeared before him, twisting and solidifying until it took the shape of a man — Munar, in his spiritual form, for his physical body had long been destroyed.
He knelt before the throne, bowing his head low.
"Hmm… what happened to you, you useless tool?"
The One's voice was soft, almost calm — but Munar, having known him for eons, could feel the venom dripping from every word.
The One's eyes glowed faintly through the mist, his cold stare sharp enough to melt fire, and his very presence seemed to suffocate the air.
"There were… some unexpected variables, my lord," Munar said, daring to lift
his head slightly.
"Why do you look at me? Do you have a death wish?" The tone didn't change,
but the threat was clear.
"I—I'm sorry, my lord," Munar stammered.
"As I was saying… Fantasy
manifested himself through the boy and stopped me. He used many of his past
abilities, and I was limited by the time-constraint of inexistent entities, so
I couldn't use my full power. I tried killing him — it was easier than capturing him — but… I failed."
The One remained motionless as Munar spoke, his expression unreadable. But
when Munar mentioned killing Fantasy, a flicker of suspicion flashed in his eyes.
Before Munar could blink, his world spun — his body fell limp to the ground, headless.
The One stood holding Munar's head in one hand, a smile curling at his lips.
"For a moment, I thought you were planning to betray me," he said softly,
"but I suppose this one is on me… I hadn't told you."
The purple mist that usually cloaked The One's body receded, revealing his
true form — a perfect mirror of Fantasy, except his eyes and hair glowed with a deep, cosmic purple rather than gold.
"How—how is this possible?" Munar gasped, his severed head somehow still
conscious.
"I didn't predict Fantasy would take control of Jayden and fight you," The One said, dropping the head near its body. "Nor did I remember that damned time-constraint law."
He snapped his fingers. Munar's body regenerated instantly, head and all.
"Do you know why you were able to fight Fantasy?" The One asked. "Because he
came to you. There's a barrier blocking anyone from entering Earth — that
wretched seal he placed — but I've managed to sneak someone through.
A celestial.
He's only using a tenth of his power since he's bound to a human body and restricted by that same law. But that's a plan for later. No need to spoil it now."
Then, for the first time since The One had resurrected him after The End of Existence — the cataclysmic war between Fantasy and The One before the Great Reset — Munar heard him laugh.
The sound was cold, distorted, and terrifying. It was wrong for something so
evil to sound almost human.
"Let me tell you," The One said, grinning, "how Fantasy created me… and how
I built this empire of Celestials."
*********
Far away, beneath the veil of night, Sabrina sat in her hidden lair, disguised as the old witch.
The flickering light of a single lantern danced across the walls, illuminating shelves filled with strange runes, skulls, and potions that pulsed faintly with dark mana.
She hissed softly as she dabbed a glowing balm over a deep bite wound on her
ribs — a gift from a spirit snake.
Her body bore other cuts and burns, reminders of her recent battle.
She should have died, but the dark blessings of her craft — poison immunity,
accelerated regeneration, heightened mana control — had kept her alive.
Those same gifts, however, came at a terrible price.
She had sacrificed her conscience, her soul,
and fifty human lives to the darkness.
Before leaving her hideout, she had kept one of her human victims alive — a pathetic wretch she used as a punching bag whenever anger consumed
her.
Today, she was furious.
Grabbing her iron cane, she descended into the cold, damp basement.
The air reeked of blood and mold.
Unlocking the hatch, she stepped
into the dim chamber, where a half-dead man lay shackled to the wall.
Seeing him, she smiled — a cruel, sadistic smile that could make even demons shudder.
"I didn't feed you, did I?" she said, laughing softly.
Using her magic, she snatched a scurrying rat from the shadows and levitated
it before his trembling face.
"Eat. Or else you'll die. And we can't have that, can we?"
"Please… kill me," the man croaked.
Sabrina's smile faded into cold fury. "Do you remember when I was exiled?
When you and your friends found me and… defiled me? I remember your words — 'Scream
for me, baby. I won't stop until you're dead.'"
Her voice dropped into a whisper. "So scream for me now. Because even when
you're dead, I won't stop beating you."
Her disguise dissolved, revealing her youthful form.
Then she kicked him — once, twice, again and again — until blood poured freely from his mouth.
The dungeon echoed with his screams and her laughter, merging into one dreadful
symphony that filled the night.
"At least I didn't kill you," she said, panting. "You should be grateful.
All your friends became sacrifices. Be grateful for your life."
She turned, and the floating rat burst into flames behind her, leaving behind nothing but a burnt up rat corpse.
"See? Roasted — just how you like it. Eat up. You'll need your strength… if you
want to live."
With that, she left the room, feeling an odd euphoria, and returned to her study. Her eyes gleamed with wicked delight.
"Now… time to think about how I'll play with Sarah Reginald," she murmured. Her laughter echoed down the corridor — twisted, childlike, and utterly deranged.
**************
At the academy, the School teachers Council had gathered in the headmaster's office.
The air buzzed with anticipation. This year marked the start of the Mages and Sword Arts Tournament, and teachers were to nominate the students most deserving to represent the school.
The headmaster, an elderly man with a heavy gaze, cleared his throat.
"Alright," he said, his voice echoing through the chamber, "we may begin.
Any suggestions?"
The teachers exchanged glances.
Traditionally, the form teacher, Mr. David,
remained silent until others had spoken — to allow unbiased opinions.
Mr. Sein spoke first. "I want to recommend Robby Duran and Jayden Reginald.
Both have shown promise.
Robby's persistence and quickthinking — with training — could make him shine.
As for Jayden, his copy magic gives him an edge. He's already exceptional in physical combat."
"Surely, you're mistaken, Mr. Sein," said Mr. Deman, the teacher of Class One's unawakened division.
"Jayden Reginald doesn't possess copy magic — his element is wind. I saw him levitate himself and two others into the
air with my own eyes."
The room murmured with confusion.
"But I thought he was a lightning mage," the nurse interjected.
"When you brought that boy to the infirmary after the fight, there were clear traces of lightning energy on his body."
The teachers turned to the headmaster in bewilderment.
He frowned and looked at Mr. David. "Do you know anything about this?"
"Yes," Mr. David said calmly. "I received a letter from his father.
Apparently, with practice, Jayden will be able to use the abilities of others.
Strange phenomena may occur around him and we're not to bother ourselves with it."
The headmaster leaned back, nodding slowly.
"That's… convenient. We'll need it. Rumor has it an IQ Magic User will be joining the sword team."
The mention sent a wave of unease across the room.
The last IQ user had been a monster — a genius who slaughtered hundreds before being defeated by Luke and the King themselves.
The headmaster's eyes darkened. He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a long scar running from his wrist up his forearm — a permanent reminder of that battle.
"Let's just pray," he said softly, "that history doesn't repeat itself."