The healers had done what they could.
That was the quiet truth hanging over the chamber.
Fuegoleon Vermillion lay still upon the reinforced bed, thick bandages wrapped tightly around his torso and shoulder, runes faintly glowing to stabilize his mana circulation. Where his arm should have been, there was only silence—no flame, no motion, no warmth.
The room smelled of antiseptic herbs and scorched mana.
Leopold stood beside the bed.
He hadn't moved for a long time.
His hands were clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles had gone pale, nails biting into his palms. His cloak was torn, soot-stained, one sleeve half-burned away. His body screamed with pain—burns, fractures, mana exhaustion—but he barely registered it.
All he could see was his brother.
The man who always stood ahead of him.
The man whose back he had chased his entire life.
Fuegoleon's chest rose and fell faintly, each breath shallow but steady. The Crimson Lion captain's face was calm, almost peaceful, as if he were merely resting after training.
But Leopold knew better.
"…Idiot," Leopold muttered under his breath, voice hoarse. "You always do this."
He took a step closer, stopping just at the bedside.
"I told you," he whispered. "I told you I'd catch up. I told you I'd stand next to you one day."
His throat tightened.
"You didn't have to go that far."
The silence didn't answer him.
It never did.
Leopold lowered his head, teeth clenched hard enough that his jaw ached.
And then—
The memory surfaced.
Uninvited.
Unavoidable.
___
He had been younger then.
Still shorter than his brother. Still angry at the world. Still burning with the need to prove himself.
They had been training in the early morning, the sun barely cresting over the Vermillion estate walls. Fuegoleon had just finished his drills, steam rising from his skin as he wiped sweat from his brow.
Leopold had noticed it then.
The faint, star-shaped mark etched into his brother's forehead.
Not a scar.
Not a burn.
Something deliberate.
Something permanent.
"Hey," Leopold had said, pointing. "What's that?"
Fuegoleon had paused.
Touched his forehead once.
Then smiled.
"This?" he said easily. "It's a mark."
Leopold frowned. "Obviously. But why do you have it?"
Fuegoleon looked at him for a long moment—longer than usual. His expression shifted, losing some of its usual warmth, becoming something steadier. He knelt down so they were eye level.
"This mark," Fuegoleon said, voice calm but resolute, "is a symbol of a personal oath."
"Oath?" Leopold echoed.
Fuegoleon nodded. "A vow I carved into myself. To never forget my goal."
Leopold swallowed. "What goal?"
Fuegoleon's eyes burned brighter than his flames ever had.
"To become the Wizard King."
The words had struck Leopold like lightning.
"The Wizard King?" he repeated, stunned.
Fuegoleon smiled again, softer this time. "Yes. This mark reminds me that every battle, every wound, every step forward… is part of that oath."
He placed a hand on Leopold's shoulder.
"You don't need a mark yet," he said. "Your fire is still growing."
"But one day," Fuegoleon continued, "when you know what you're willing to give up… you'll understand."
___
The memory shattered.
Leopold's breath hitched.
He stared at Fuegoleon's still form, the bandages, the empty space where his arm should have been.
"…You understood," Leopold whispered. "Didn't you?"
His chest burned.
Anger surged—hot and violent—but it wasn't directed outward.
It turned inward.
At himself.
At his weakness.
At the fact that when it mattered most, he hadn't been strong enough.
He slammed his fist against the wall beside the bed.
The impact cracked stone.
"I was there," he growled. "I fought. I burned everything I had."
His voice shook.
"But I still wasn't enough."
His flames stirred.
Low at first.
Then rising.
"Everyone keeps moving forward," Leopold muttered. "Asta. Noelle. Even you…"
His head lifted.
Eyes blazing.
"And I'm sick of chasing shadows."
The fire around him surged violently, flaring up his arms, across his shoulders. The heat distorted the air, licking dangerously close to the healers' wards.
Leopold stepped back from the bed.
"I won't be left behind."
He raised his right hand.
Flames gathered—compressed, focused, far denser than his usual attacks. They burned white-hot at the core, pulsing with unstable intensity.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
"I swear it," he said, voice shaking with fury and resolve. "I'll be the same as you."
The fire climbed higher.
"I'll surpass you if I have to."
His hand trembled.
"I'll become the Wizard King."
Without hesitation—
He pressed his blazing palm against his forehead.
The pain was instant.
Searing.
Overwhelming.
Leopold screamed.
The flames didn't spread.
They carved.
Controlled by sheer will, they etched a burning star into his skin—mirroring Fuegoleon's mark exactly. The smell of scorched flesh filled the room as mana flared violently outward, cracking the floor beneath his feet.
The mark burned.
Not just into his skin—
But into his soul.
Leopold staggered back, flames extinguishing instantly as the spell collapsed.
Smoke rose from his forehead.
His vision blurred.
"…I won't… fall behind…" he gasped.
His knees gave out.
The room spun violently as exhaustion, injuries, and mana backlash crashed into him all at once.
Leopold collapsed to the floor beside Fuegoleon's bed.
Hard.
His body didn't move.
The newly carved star on his forehead still glowed faintly—burning, defiant.
Outside, distant alarms rang through the capital.
Inside the chamber—
Two Vermillions lay unconscious.
And the oath had been made.