Smoke carried through the Royal Capital like a low, drifting fog—soft enough not to suffocate, but heavy enough to remind everyone that danger was everywhere. The scent of scorched stone, ruptured mana, and broken buildings lingered in the air long after the screams had faded.
The restaurant in Rebecca's neighborhood—small, warm, and recently repaired—stood trembling but intact. Its wooden frame shook every time a distant explosion echoed through the streets. The windows buzzed faintly with every aftershock. A lantern that hung above the counter flickered as if scared.
Inside, people huddled together.
Rebecca stood near the entrance, clutching a kitchen knife.
Her hand shook.
Her heart raced.
But she didn't move from that spot.
Because behind her—pressing against each other in a cluster of tiny limbs—stood her siblings and half the neighborhood's children. Mothers cradled toddlers. Elderly men leaned against overturned tables. Workers who had been eating here before the chaos now crouched in the corner with trembling hands.
Rebecca swallowed hard.
She wasn't strong.
She wasn't a fighter.
She wasn't brave.
But she was all they had right now.
"Everyone stay behind me," she whispered, voice trembling.
The words tasted like smoke and fear.
A deep thud shook the building.
Children screamed.
Rebecca nearly dropped the knife.
Someone whispered, "Is the barrier breaking? Are those monsters getting closer?"
A crash sounded outside.
Rebecca forced herself toward the window, placing her palm on the wall to steady her shaking legs. She didn't want to look. Every instinct told her to crawl back and hide with the others.
But if something was coming, she needed to know.
She pulled the curtain aside by an inch.
What she saw nearly knocked her breath out.
"…Lencar?"
Standing in the middle of the narrow street—motionless, silent, and completely alone—was the figure everyone in this neighborhood had come to trust.
Lencar.
Coat.
Posture.
Silhouette.
Presence.
Even his hair, partially visible beneath the hood, was the same familiar dark shade. His shoulders were relaxed but firm. His chin dipped slightly toward the enemy. His stance was precise, balanced, uncanny.
Rebecca's heart fluttered with relief.
"He came for us again," she whispered.
The children lifted their heads.
The neighbors stopped crying.
People moved toward the window cautiously, hope rising in them like warm breath in winter.
But none of them knew the truth.
This wasn't Lencar.
It was Mariella.
Wearing his spare cloak.
Wearing his gloves.
Wearing boots that matched his stride.
And using a sophisticated magic artifact—a smooth, dark gemstone nestled under the collar—to project an illusion that wrapped her entire body.
Her height became Lencar's height.
Her voice became his voice.
Her facial structure, hair texture, and even aura subtly shifted to match his exact appearance.
To these terrified civilians, she was Lencar.
And Mariella knew she had to be flawless.
Because they needed him.
Mariella breathed in slowly, the illusion warming her skin with its soft magical hum. She could feel the enchantment shaping the air around her, maintaining Lencar's exact outline even as she moved.
She tightened her grip on her grimoire.
"Alright," she murmured behind the false voice the artifact created.
"Time to do what you would do."
Her eyes—hidden beneath the illusion—darted across the street.
The undead were everywhere.
Clawing at stone.
Dragging broken limbs.
Moaning with unnatural hunger.
Dozens of them crowding the narrow block, spilling from alleys, shuffling over fallen crates, stains of dark mana swirling around their feet.
Rades was nowhere near this district anymore—the faint signature of his magic was distant and unstable—but his undead kept moving anyway, driven by lingering commands.
Mariella cracked her knuckles.
"I'm borrowing your look for one night," she muttered to the empty street.
"So… don't get mad later."
She stepped forward.
The undead turned.
Their heads twisted unnaturally, cracking bones snapping in the silence.
They screeched.
And charged.
Mariella raised her grimoire.
Golden light erupted from the pages in a swirling vortex.
"Chain Magic: Bindstorm."
Dozens of glowing chains burst from the pavement like metallic serpents, coiling around undead torsos and legs, slamming them into the ground in a synchronized clatter of iron and bone.
The street trembled from the impact.
But more undead sprinted toward her.
She didn't move.
She simply lifted her arm and snapped her fingers.
"Chain Magic: Snare Line."
Chains shot outward in horizontal slashes—cutting through zombie limbs, severing rotten joints, slicing rotten torsos from waist to shoulder.
Dust exploded.
Flesh flew.
Limbs rolled across stone.
Rebecca, watching through the window, gasped.
"He—he's unbelievable…"
Neighbors whispered prayers of gratitude.
Children clung to each other, eyes wide.
Mariella pivoted, cloak swirling behind her in a perfect replica of Lencar's movement. She had practiced that pivot for days. Lencar never wasted energy—never did anything extra. So neither could she.
Another undead lunged from the side.
Mariella didn't even turn her head.
Her chains reacted automatically, smacking the creature into a wall with a bone-crunching crack.
More crawled over the debris.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Maybe fifty now.
It was a crowd.
A wave.
A tide of dead flesh.
Mariella flicked two fingers upward.
A magic circle formed beneath her boots, bright and complex.
Chains shot upward, angled, rotating around her like a spinning shield.
The undead slammed into it—
And bounced off like insects hitting a metal barrier.
Rebecca exhaled shakily.
"He's… he's protecting us so easily…"
Inside the restaurant, people began to whisper:
"He came for us."
"He always protects this place."
"We're safe with him here."
"He's… incredible."
Mariella fought harder.
Not because she enjoyed it.
Not because she wanted attention.
But because these people believed Lencar was saving them.
So she had to be worthy of that belief.
Twenty minutes of nonstop combat passed in a blur of golden chains and rotting flesh.
Mariella ripped undead from rooftops.
Smashed them into alley walls.
Pinned them beneath metal binds.
Cut down wave after wave.
Her grimoire glowed white-hot from overuse.
Sweat ran down her temple beneath the illusion.
She kept fighting.
She had to.
Every time she looked at the restaurant window and saw a terrified child's face pressed against the glass, she moved faster.
Every time she heard Rebecca call out behind the door to calm the frightened neighbors, she cast harder.
Every time she felt the illusion flicker slightly from strain, she forced her breathing smooth again.
"Not yet," she whispered.
"Not until they're safe."
Her golden chains curled around her legs like loyal pets.
The undead kept coming.
But she did not falter.
She lifted her grimoire for one more powerful spell—
Then—
Everything stopped.
The undead froze mid-lunge.
Their bodies shook.
Their jaws hung open.
Their limbs twitched.
Mariella stiffened.
"…What now?"
Then—
In perfect synchrony—
Every undead turned.
And retreated.
Not because she defeated them.
Because the necromancer controlling them—
Rades Spirito—
had been knocked unconscious by Lencar.
The undead sputtered with unstable mana…
then lurched back down the street, away from her, away from the restaurant, away from the neighborhood entirely.
Within seconds—
The block was silent.
Only fragments of rotten flesh remained.
Mariella lowered her hands slowly.
Her exhaustion finally caught up to her.
"…Thank you, Lencar," she whispered under her breath,
"for punching that guy senseless when you did."
She released the battle formation.
The chains dissolved into golden particles.
The illusion around her shimmered softly, reinforcing itself.
The danger was gone.
She turned to look at the restaurant—
Just as the doors burst open.
Rebecca ran forward with wide, relieved eyes.
Behind her came dozens of neighbors, voices loud and heartfelt.
"Lencar!"
"You protected us!"
"We owe you everything!"
"You're the hero of the neighborhood!"
"You saved our families!"
"You saved our kids!"
Mariella froze.
Her heart thumped painfully.
The praise wasn't hers.
But she had to maintain the disguise.
So she stayed quiet.
Still.
Calm.
Exactly like Lencar would.
Rebecca reached her first, almost breathless.
"You… you came," she whispered, voice shaking with gratitude.
Mariella inclined her head slightly—
the exact type of subtle acknowledgment Lencar always used.
Rebecca's eyes softened.
"…Thank you."
Mariella clenched her jaw behind the illusion.
And nodded once.