The chamber smelled of old magic and colder earth. Minus sat alone now, cross-legged atop the dais where her rebirth had been sealed. Around her, the blue flames guttered low, burning without heat, sinking into the ancient stone.
Her new body trembled still—betraying her. Every breath was raw. Every movement a reminder that she was a stranger within this flesh.
Minus closed her eyes. She inhaled.
The mana within her was fragmented, scattered like the last coals of a dying fire. But it was there. Oh, it was there.
The Empire had thought her dead.
The world had thought her dead.
Even Frieren must have felt it—a yawning silence where once there had been a storm.
They were not wrong.
The Minus they had feared, the witch who had turned armies to dust and left saints weeping in her wake—that Minus had died.
But death, in the end, was only a doorway.
And she had stepped through it.
She smiled—a thin, bloodless thing that barely touched her new eyes.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Patience.
First, the vessel had to be reforged. Milliarde's body, though strong, was still too frail to bear her full might. The rebirth had saved her spirit, but it had not restored her strength. That would take time. Weeks, months—longer, if needed.
But she would not be idle.
Second, she would find Serie.
Not as an enemy. Not yet.
Serie—the oldest, most complete mage alive. The architect of rebirth. The one who had, perhaps unwisely, given her a second chance. Serie would understand.
She would teach her more.
Until no death could claim her.
Until not even the Goddess herself could undo what Minus had become.
Minus rose slowly. Mana crackled along her skin in ghostly veins of silver and sapphire. She flexed her fingers. Simple cantrips formed at her fingertips—fragile, like spider silk—but even now, the potential was undeniable.
In time, she would forge spells that no human, no demon, no elf could counter.
The elder elf waited at the entrance to the chamber, silent, reverent.
"I will remain hidden here," Minus said, her voice regaining its old weight. "No word leaves the village. If even a whisper reaches the Empire, all we have built will be for nothing."
The elder bowed. "It shall be done, Great Witch."
"And the girl's memories?" Minus asked.
"Sealed," he answered. "Milliarde's soul rests. Only you remain."
Good.
No ghosts clinging to her mind. No distractions.
Minus turned toward the heavy curtains shielding the shrine. Beyond them, the village slumbered beneath enchantments and mist. And beyond that—the broken kingdoms, the Empire, and the man who had dared raise his hand against her.
Lowe.
She whispered the name inwardly. Not with rage. Not yet.
It was a cold thing, tucked away in the hollow of her chest.
Let them believe they had won. Let them sing songs of their triumph.
When she returned, it would not be for conquest.
It would be for erasure.
Minus lifted her hand.
Blue fire coiled above her palm, forming into the shape of a rose—delicate, perfect. She clenched her fist, and the rose collapsed inward, petals bursting into blades of mana that hissed into the walls and vanished.
The elder flinched, but said nothing.
Minus lowered her hand, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
"I will come back stronger than ever," she murmured. "And when I do… the Empire will fall. Lowe will kneel. Even Serie—"
Her eyes gleamed, cool and endless,
"—will see that the Goddess favors only the enduring."
The flames guttered low.
Far away, beyond the misted forests and quiet rivers, in a tower carved from forgotten stone, another elf stirred.
Serie sat quietly, one eye half-closed as she turned a worn page of a forgotten grimoire.
She did not need to look up to feel it.
The flicker of will.
The stubborn flame reigniting itself.
The old hunger, familiar and defiant.
Serie had already known Minus had been reborn—ever since the moment her battle with Lowe ended.
The rebirth spell she had crafted was flawless. Of course it had worked.
What stirred now was different.
It was not the fragile, gasping life of a reborn soul.
It was will.
The slow, steady return of Minus' true self—the part that refused to kneel, refused to die.
Serie smiled lazily, resting her chin on her hand.
"So," she mused aloud, voice thick with amusement, "she's finally waking up."
She gave a soft, almost pitying laugh.
"Give it a little longer," Serie said, voice dripping with smugness. "She'll come crawling to me for help."
After all—no matter how fierce Minus' heart burned, no matter how much hatred she hoarded—
only Serie truly understood the rebirth spell.
Only Serie could finish what had been started.
And when Minus came, Serie would be waiting.
As she always had.