SHOOOOOOOOOOOOOK!!!
It was like the air itself screamed.
A shockwave ripped through the market a sudden, violent pulse of energy that tore everything apart in an instant.
BOOOOOM!!!
Stalls exploded. Roofs lifted. Debris launched skyward as though gravity surrendered. People screamed some were flung into windows, others thrown into each other mid-air. The wind howled like a beast, mad and unchained.
At the epicenter of it all…
Max.
More precisely his right eye.
Even unconscious, it glowed faintly. Red. Dangerous. If you looked close enough, you'd see it shockwaves spinning inside the iris like frozen ripples, waiting to burst again.
That's where the blast came from.
From him.
The mustached man a seasoned three-star mage didn't stand a chance. He barely raised his wand before the force hit.
"URGHAAAGH!"
He was flung like a broken doll, his body slamming into stone and skidding across the market road, crashing through a shattered cart with a crunch.
The arcane barriers lining the street flickered.
And everyone else?
No exceptions.
The crowd innocents, curious, brave or whatever everyone were tossed like leaves. Bodies hit walls, windows shattered, cries filled the air.
Except one.
The black-haired boy.
Limbless. Bleeding. Still.
The wave curved around him, like it had chosen to spare him.
Why?
No one knew.
Silence.
Only the sound of glass raining down like silver snow. The world stood still, frozen in awe and fear.
The mustached man groaned, crawling across the debris. Blood oozed from his shoulder as he grabbed his fallen wand with trembling fingers.
He stared at the destruction, pale, eyes wide.
"What... was that?"
Then voices. Movement.
The crowd began to recover some groaning, others cursing. A man clutched his fractured arm and muttered,
"That was... a pure mana explosion"
The words sparked more murmurs. Panic. Confusion.
In the center of it all, the black-haired boy stirred.
He couldn't move. Not really. But he was awake enough to feel the shift in the air. Hear the fear. Taste the blood on his tongue.
And the confusion in his own mind.
Why didn't the shockwave touch me?
He turned his head with what little strength he had left, his eyes finding the silver haired boy beside him.
He was also there didn't flew off just like him.
And silent.
Too still.
No breathing ,movement or anything.
Dead.
The black-haired boy stared, mind reeling.
He didn't even know the kid. And yet… he'd jumped in front of that blast. Willingly.
"Did he just... move?"
He swear he just saw boy eye blinked.
Suddenly he blinked his eye normally an
Gone.
What?!
The boy's eyes widened. Just seconds ago, the silver haired boy was right there bloody and dead.
Now? Nothing.
Even through the haze of pain, he turned his head. Slowly. Gritting his teeth.
Then he saw it.
Feet.
Someone was standing exactly where Max's body had been.
"H-Huh? You… you how the hell are you still alive?!" The mustached man screamed, pointing in disbelief.
His voice cut through the aftermath like a blade, drawing all eyes toward the center of the devastation.
And there he was.
Max. Standing.
A gaping hole still carved clean through his chest large enough to see the broken market through it. Wind passed through the cavity as though he were already a ghost.
The black-haired boy's heart lurched at the shout. He pushed his blood-slick face up from the ground with sheer willpower, eyes barely able to focus but what he saw made him forget his pain.
Silver haired was standing.
Alive.
"How…?" the boy whispered, voice hoarse, mind spiraling. "He was dead. I saw him."
He could barely believe what he was seeing.
That hole it was real. The blood still dripped down his shirt, soaking into the stone. And yet, Max stood motionless in the middle of the street, face expressionless, eyes hollow.
No eye.
Only his left eye was open now, glowing with a blinding crimson red, brighter than any ruby, more terrifying than any spell.
His right eye remained shut.
But even with one eye closed, something was happening. Something unnatural.
But there he stood.
And he was changing.
His silver hair now flowed longer, unspooling with a strange grace, slipping past his ears to brush the top of his shoulders. It shimmered faintly, catching what little light the ruined street offered, like strands spun from moonlight itself.
His skin, pale and untouched by dirt or ash, looked smooth almost too smooth. Ageless. Like marble carved by a hand far too perfect. His features had sharpened elegant, unnaturally symmetrical. Beautiful in the way a statue is beautiful immaculate, cold, distant.
The red glow from his open eye pulsed again this time, space itself around it trembled.
The mustached man staggered backward, his earlier rage completely drowned by raw fear. "What... are you..?"
And then it happened.
The hole in Max's chest
It began to close.
Not slowly. Not medically.
It regrew. Flesh, bone, skin reforming like time itself rewound just for him. Within seconds, the wound was gone vanished as if it had never existed.
No scar. No trace.
Just silently.
The crowd, battered and bruised, fell deathly quiet. Dozens of eyes stared at Max in disbelief, hearts pounding in their ears, unable to make sense of what they were seeing.
"What… what even is he?" someone whispered.
"That's not magic," another muttered, shaking their head. "Even a Seventh-Rank can't pull that off…"
"Is he a… zombie or maybe a phantom?"
"No… no, even those don't do this."
The murmurs grew, but no one dared move. The air was heavy. Charged. It felt like the world itself held its breath, watching this silver-haired boy who had just defied death like it was nothing.
And through it all, Max said nothing.
No emotion. No recognition. No humanity.
Just that glowing red eye.
It was like he himself doesn't know what was going on.
The man with the mustache was panicking.
His instincts finely honed from years of duels and dangerous contracts screamed at him to run.
He took a cautious step backward, eyes flicking left and right, gauging his escape.
This isn't right. This kid… this pressure… this eye
He turned, about to vanish into the crowd and pretend none of this had ever happened.
But then
"What exactly is going on here?"
The voice was calm. Feminine. But laced with authority so firm it carved through the chaos like a sword through silk.
Everyone froze.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
And then, like a curtain parting, she appeared.
Right in the center of the ruined street.
A woman, standing tall and elegant in a regal violet frock embroidered with golden runes. In her right hand, she held a towering sapphire-colored staff, its surface glowing faintly with layered enchantments. The tip of it hummed with restrained power.
No one had seen her arrive.
No flash of teleportation. No swirl of mana. No burst of light.
She was simply… there.
The mustached man's blood ran cold.
He stumbled a step back, jaw tightening as his eyes locked onto her. "W-What the hell?!"
He hadn't sensed her. Not even a flicker.
How? That's not possible unless…
His throat went dry.
High-tier teleportation… or worse void-step.
His heart began to race. A single bead of sweat slid down his temple.
Then came the whispers.
Faint at first then louder.
"That's her…!"
"It's Lady Evelyne"
"The Protector of Runebrick"
The crowd reacted like a wave. A mixture of awe and reverence overtook them.
Even those injured struggled to get to their feet.
And then, as one, the people bowed.
Right fists to their chests, heads lowered not a word spoken, but the weight of their gesture echoing louder than screams.
Even the atmosphere responded.
The air became clearer. Lighter. Mana settled into a respectful calm, no longer thrashing with chaos.
The mustached man stared at the woman, pale and trembling.
Protector of Runebrick?
Wait Protector?!
His knees buckled slightly. His mouth went dry. His lips twitched, trying to form excuses.
Then it hit him.
Sixth rank mage.
SIXTH.
His mind fractured for a moment, unable to comprehend the gap.
A sixth-rank mage wasn't just a powerhouse they were walking catastrophes. Strategic-level forces. Commanders of armies. Teachers of nations.
A thousand third-rank mages wouldn't stand a chance if she chose to raise a finger.
I'm dead. I'm absolutely
He quickly mimicked the crowd, slapping his hand to his chest and bowing, eyes wide with silent horror. His body moved on instinct his soul wanted to flee.
Lady Evelyne said nothing.
She merely stood there, her staff resting gently on the cracked cobblestones, gaze scanning the aftermath like a queen stepping into a battlefield.
Her eyes found Max.
Then the black-haired boy, bloodied and broken.
And then, the mustached man.
Her brow furrowed slightly.
She hadn't spoken yet.
But even her silence felt like judgment.
The mustached man lowered his head further, wishing he could vanish into the earth.
---
Fucking hell toook soo long to write this fucking chapter up i swear....i wanna cry