Re: Zero - The Brightest Stars in Vollachia

by Usually_unreal

Chapter 53: Synchronized

Chapter 49: Synchronized

---

Otto Suwen was exhausted.

The makeshift command table in front of him was a mess of hastily sketched maps, scattered markers, and notes written in different hands and different levels of panic. 

He stared at it anyway, eyes struggling to focus as the lines swam together. 

One hour.

It had been one solid hour since the last full strategic rotation, and for that entire time, he had been holding open the Divine Protection of the Soul of Language across multiple battlefields.

His body was very loudly protesting that decision.

Pain throbbed behind his eyes in slow, merciless pulses, like someone hammering directly against his skull from the inside. Each beat sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him. 

Warm liquid slid down from his nose, dripping onto the edge of the table. He registered it distantly and chose to ignore it. Wiping it now would require lifting his hand, and that felt like more effort than he could afford.

The world tilted when he shifted his weight.

“Otto-san, hold still,” Petra said softly.

Her hands pressed against his temples, small but steady, Yang magic blooming beneath her palms. The warmth seeped into him, spreading through his head like oil poured over grinding gears. 

It did not remove the pain, but it blunted it enough that his vision stopped threatening to go black at the edges. 

The magic reinforced his Divine Protection, widening its reach and stabilizing the connections that were starting to fray.

Without her, he would have collapsed already. He knew that. The thought made his chest tighten with guilt and gratitude in equal measure.

“Thank you, Petra-san,” Otto murmured, jaw clenched as another spike of pain tried to push through.

The noise never stopped.

The cacophony never stopped. 

Birds shrieked reports from above. Insects chattered endlessly from the ground. Small mammals relayed half-formed warnings passed along from creatures that had seen something terrifying and did not have the words to describe it. 

The Divine Protection of the Soul of Language had always been overwhelming in large numbers. Right now, it felt like his skull had been turned into a crowded marketplace where everyone was shouting at once.

Information arrived in fragments. A bird repeating what an insect had seen. An insect misremembering what a mouse had panicked about. Each relay blurred details, added fear, and stripped context. 

Otto’s mind worked desperately to reconstruct reality from the chaos, sorting truth from exaggeration, and pattern from noise.

Just hold on, he told himself, swallowing hard against the nausea. You rest after we win. Not before.

Everyone was relying on this. Natsuki-san. Emilia-sama. Garfiel. The soldiers on the ground who could not see past the smoke and flames. If I stopped now, people would die because of it.

Abel’s voice cut cleanly through the noise. “First bastion status?”

Otto straightened a fraction, forcing his focus to narrow. He sifted through the torrent of input, ignoring screams that carried no usable detail and grabbing onto anything concrete.

A sparrow’s terrified voice tore through his thoughts.

“Fire everywhere! Too hot! Soldiers screaming! Stone melting! Can’t get close!”

Pain flared as Otto pulled deeper, catching flashes through the panic. Walls of blinding light cutting across stone. Soldiers retreating in disarray. A familiar silhouette standing unshaken amid the heat, a sword radiating Yang energy so intense that even animals fled from it.

Otto sucked in a breath and spoke.

“The first bastion is currently engaged,” he reported, voice rough but steady. “Heavy fire magic deployment. Priscilla-sama is confirmed to be active.”

Another wave hit him. He flinched, fingers digging into the table.

“Yang Sword activity detected,” he continued, pushing through it. “Multiple light-based barriers are forming across the fortifications. Al-san is visible in combat alongside her.”

His vision swam as a flock of birds scattered from the area in his mind, their fear overwhelming.

“Heat levels are forcing animal scouts to withdraw,” Otto added, wincing. “Information quality is degraded, but their position appears to be secure for now. Enemy forces are retreating from the immediate area.”

Abel’s eyes beneath the oni mask shifted a fraction, the barest acknowledgment of the report. He didn’t comment. He never did unless something actually changed the equation.

Unfortunately for Otto’s skull, something immediately did.

The voices in his head shifted direction all at once, fear draining out and being replaced by something louder and far more chaotic.

“The beast-man won! The beast-man won!”

“So fast!”

“Green one fell! Over! Over already!”

Otto’s breath hitched. Wait. Already?!

His mind scrambled, cross-referencing positions, timelines, distances. The Fifth Bastion should still be contested. It should have taken longer. Garfiel was strong, terrifyingly so, but even then—

No. The voices were clear, jubilant, and certain.

“T-the fifth bastion has been secured,” Otto announced, unable to fully keep the relief out of his voice. It cracked anyway. “Garfiel Tinzel has defeated First-Class General Kafma Irulux. Their engagement has concluded.”

Abel gave a single, subtle nod. That was it. No praise, no surprise. Just a silent recalculation. One less front. One less Divine-class threat draining attention and resources.

Petra’s Yang magic flared a little stronger at Otto’s temples as the world tilted sharply to the left. Her small fingers adjusted instinctively, steady and practiced, keeping him upright when his knees very much wanted to fold.

Her cyan eyes flicked up to his face, worry clear. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Otto knew exactly how bad he looked.

Then the next wave hit.

It wasn’t triumphant, nor was it clean.

“Big metal man!”

“Doesn’t tire!”

“Doesn’t stop!”

“Women in trees fighting! Neither moving!”

“Stuck! Still stuck!”

Otto winced as the images formed. Heavy and relentless. Something that didn’t bleed or slow down, no matter how many times it was struck.

Golems.

Moguro Hagane’s constructs, just like the briefings had warned. Perfect weapons for attrition warfare.

“The third bastion seems to remain in a stalemate,” Otto reported, rubbing at his upper lip and only then noticing how much blood had dried there. He wiped it away absently with his sleeve. “The Shudrakian forces are engaged against Moguro Hagane’s golems. Neither side is gaining any significant ground.”

A sudden shift rippled through the voices.

“Pink hair!”

“Magic shaking the ground!”

“Feels wrong! Not bad! Just… wrong!”

Otto’s heart skipped.

Ram.

He didn’t even need to think about it.

“One of our allies has entered the engagement,” he added, voice tight. “Unknown impact on the current stalemate.”

Serena Dracroy’s sharp, controlled voice cut in from across the command tent. “My flying squadron is already supporting that sector. Do you want additional units committed?”

“Hold current deployment,” Abel replied instantly. No hesitation. No wasted breath. “Observe, then adapt if the balance shifts.”

Otto swallowed hard and braced himself as the next reports crashed into him like a wall.

The birds were screaming.

“Sky full!”

“Too many!”

“Can’t see!”

“Lots of ice!”

“Dark things moving!”

“Wrong! Wrong air!”

The voices overlapped inside Otto’s head in a shrill, panicked chorus that made his teeth ache. He flinched, fingers digging into the edge of the command table as if anchoring himself might keep his skull from splitting open.

They would not go closer. Not one of them. Birds that had flown through storms, fires, and battlefields before were outright refusing to approach the airspace above the second bastion. 

Their fear was raw and instinctual, the kind that didn’t listen to reason or commands.

Images bled through anyway. A sky choked with massive wings. Dragons wheeling and roaring, their presence overwhelming even through secondhand perception.

And beneath that…was something else.

Darkness that didn’t behave like darkness. Shadows that slid and twisted with intent, tugging at the air itself. Even through the animals’ fractured impressions, Otto could feel it. A pressure. A wrongness that made his stomach turn.

He sucked in a shaky breath, forcing himself to sort panic into something usable.

“The second bastion has some aerial engagement,” Otto reported, voice tight as he pushed the words past the pounding in his head. “Madelyn Eschart is confirmed in combat with Emily-sama. Visibility is severely limited. Dragon units dominate the airspace. Reconnaissance animals are refusing to approach. My information is fragmentary.”

Petra’s hands pressed a little more firmly against his temples at the mention of Emilia. Her brows knit together, worry flashing across her face, but she didn’t falter. Warm Yang magic continued to flow, steady and constant, keeping Otto conscious when his body clearly wanted to quit.

Each update scraped something out of him.

Four fronts. Four simultaneous battles. Fire, steel, monsters, Divine Generals, dragons. His Divine Protection screamed with the strain of translating animal fear and instinct into something humans could actually act on.

How is anyone supposed to keep track of all this? he thought weakly, nausea rolling in his gut. This is insane. This is way too much.

But his hands stayed on the table. His mind kept working.

Because there was no one else who could do this.

Because Natsuki-san, Emilia-sama, and everyone else were out there right now, and if I let myself collapse, someone would die because of it.

Then the pressure shifted.

New voices surged in from an entirely different direction, so sudden and loud they nearly knocked him out of his chair.

“Many people!”

“So many!”

“Moving together!”

“All together!”

“Like one creature!”

Otto’s heart lurched painfully. Enemy reinforcements? Now?!

He forced himself to focus, cutting through the noise with sheer will. “Are they imperial soldiers?” he demanded, voice sharp despite the exhaustion. “What banners are they carrying?”

Confusion rippled back at him.

“No banners!”

“Wait, yes banner!”

“Yellow star!”

“Never seen before!”

“What is that?”

What? A…yellow star?

Pain faded into the background as his mind raced, gears grinding despite the fatigue. An unknown faction entering Vollachia this late made no sense. None at all. Unless they weren’t unknown. Unless they were—

“Direction,” he snapped, forcing clarity through the chaos. “Which direction are they coming from?!”

“From sunrise!”

“Across the waste!”

“Two days walking!”

“From the island place!”

The words slammed together in his head.

Gladiator Island.

That was where they had gone. Where Natsuki-san, Spica, and Beatrice-sama had been sent on what was supposed to be an impossible mission.

Otto’s breath hitched. His hands trembled, just a little.

No way, he thought, something fragile and bright stirring in his chest. They couldn’t have already…

Hope flickered despite everything. Despite the blood still drying under his nose. Despite the splitting headache and the war tearing the world apart around them.

Could it be?

Had they actually done it?

The information kept flooding in, piling on top of itself in a relentless surge. Hundreds of people. Organized. Moving together with a level of synchronization so precise that the animals struggled to describe it, their instincts screaming that something about it was deeply unnatural.

Otto’s headache spiked sharply, a hot lance of pain driving straight through his skull. His vision swam, blood flowed more freely from his nose now, dripping onto the edge of the command table in dark, sticky drops. 

The room tilted hard to the left, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he was going to black out.

“Ah—!” A sharp, involuntary sound tore from his throat as his knees buckled slightly.

Petra reacted instantly.

Her Yang magic surged in a focused burst, flooding his senses with cool clarity. It felt like plunging his head into cold water after standing too close to a furnace for too long. The pain didn’t vanish, but it pulled back enough for him to breathe again.

“Otto, focus!” Petra said, voice tight with urgency as her hands glowed brighter against his temples. “I’ve got you! Don’t let go!”

Her fingers pressed in more firmly, anchoring him to the present through sheer stubborn resolve. Otto sucked in a shaky breath and nodded weakly.

“R-right,” he murmured, forcing his thoughts into order despite how violently his body protested. “I really appreciate it, Petra, but I’m okay now. I just… need to confirm.”

He couldn’t report this on instinct alone. Not something this big. Not something that could change the entire flow of the war.

Otto closed his eyes briefly, tuning his Divine Protection with painful precision.

“Is there a short black-haired young man?” he asked the animals carefully, enunciating every detail. “Sharp brown eyes, and is wearing an orange scarf.”

The response came immediately, overlapping and excited.

“Yes!”

“At the front!”

“Scarf flying!”

“He’s leading!”

Otto’s heart leapt so hard it hurt.

Natsuki-san… he thought, relief and disbelief tangling painfully in his chest.

He didn’t stop.

“A small blonde girl wearing a white dress?” Otto pressed, voice shaking despite his efforts to stay calm. “Has blue eyes and looks very young.”

“Yes!”

“Right beside him!”

“Her voice is loud!”

“They listen to her!”

Spica…

“One more,” he said quickly, afraid that if he paused, his composure would shatter. “A tiny girl with drill-shaped hair. Always close to the black-haired man.”

The confirmation came back just as fast.

“Yes!”

“So much magic!”

“Small but heavy feeling!”

“Scary strong!”

Otto let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob.

“Ahaha…” Beatrice-sama… you’ve made it too.

Relief surged dangerously close to overwhelming him, but he clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. He wasn’t done. He needed the full picture.

“How many people total?” he asked, bracing himself.

“So many!”

“More than three hundred!”

“All together!”

“Like one body!”

Otto’s mind reeled.

They didn’t just escape, he realized, awe creeping in despite the exhaustion. They recruited them. All of those gladiators, it seems.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

“Anyone else with them?” he demanded. “Anything unusual?”

The response made his blood run cold.

“Child in pink clothing!” 

“Blue hair!” 

“Moving so fast can barely track!” 

“Already attacking the walls!” 

“Like lightning!”

Pink kimono. Blue hair.

Otto’s breath caught sharply in his chest.

Cecilus Segmunt… he thought, memories of Abel’s earlier briefings surfacing unbidden. The First Divine General. Trapped on Gladiator Island.

Did they actually extract him?!

Before Otto could process further, the animal voices suddenly spiked with new urgency—fear mixing with awe in ways that made his already pounding headache intensify.

“Dangerous one!” 

“Fire woman!” 

“Burns without touching!” 

“Air moves wrong around her!”

“Dog ears! Silver and black! Red eyes like blood!”

“So much power!” 

“Can feel it from here!” 

“Makes fur stand up!”

Otto's analytical mind clicked pieces together even as his body protested the continued strain.

"A dog-eared woman?" he asked weakly, dread settling in his stomach. "With tanned skin… and red eyes?"

“Yes! With the marching group! Fighting alongside them! Strong! So strong! We’re staying far away from her!”

Otto's legs nearly gave out.

Blood streamed freely from his nose now, splattering onto the maps below as shock slammed into him full force. Petra gasped softly but didn't pull away, redoubling her magic to keep him upright.

“The Second Divine General…” Otto whispered, the words barely leaving his lips. His eyes were wide, unfocused, staring past the command table as if the maps had dissolved into static. “Arakiya… switched sides?”

For a terrifying second, his knees nearly gave out.

“Otto-san! Stay with me!” Petra’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with fear as her hands grabbed his shoulders. Yang magic surged through the contact point, no longer gentle or measured but desperate, flooding his system in a bright, stabilizing rush.

Warmth spread across his temples and down his spine, pushing back the encroaching darkness just enough to keep him upright. His headache dulled from agony to something survivable. His vision steadied, though his stomach still rolled.

Okay. I’m surprisingly still conscious, Otto told himself, swallowing hard. Barely, but being conscious counts for something, right?

Before he could even begin to figure out how to relay this development without causing panic, the tent flap exploded inward.

“Abel-chin!”

Medium O’Connell burst into the command center like an overexcited projectile. She nearly tripped on the edge of the entrance, windmilling her arms before catching herself with the kind of practiced balance that suggested this sort of dramatic arrival happened often. 

Her eyes sparkled, cheeks flushed with joy, energy radiating off her in waves.

“Husband-kun and Spica-chan are coming!” she announced, voice loud and proud, her already-loose grasp on Common Tongue cheerfully annihilated by excitement.

She bounced on her toes, unable to stay still for even a heartbeat.

“They’re bringing so many people!” Medium continued, sweeping her arms wide as if trying to physically encompass the concept. “Like a festival! But for fighting!”

Otto opened his mouth, immediately overwhelmed.

“Medium-san, please,” he tried, lifting a shaky hand. “I need to explain properly, there are strategic implications and—”

“Yes yes! Otto-chin, please explain!” Medium nodded vigorously, still bouncing in place. “I’m just very happy! Husband-kun is safe! Spica-chan is safe! Everyone is safe!”

Her joy was so pure it almost hurt.

Despite himself, Otto felt some of the tension in the tent loosen. A few of the nearby staff exchanged glances and faint, disbelieving smiles. In the middle of a multi-front war, Medium’s happiness cut through the suffocating pressure like a breath of clean air.

This is… actually good, Otto thought faintly. I definitely don’t mind that kind of energy. 

That was when Frederica arrived.

She slipped into the tent with smooth efficiency, her leopard form collapsing back into human shape in a ripple of motion that barely disturbed the air. Her golden eyes swept the scene in a single glance. 

Understanding clicked into place behind Frederica’s calm expression.

“The Second Divine General has changed allegiances?” she asked evenly, her tone measured but sharp with significance.

Otto managed a weak nod, wiping at his nose with a sleeve he’d already ruined.

“Yes,” he said, voice hoarse but steady now. “Arakiya is confirmed to be with Natsuki-san’s group. Fighting alongside them, and that’s not all.”

He took a breath, bracing himself.

“They’ve mobilized over three hundred former gladiators with perfect synchronization. Cecilus Segmunt is already engaging the fourth bastion.”

The room went very still.

Petra’s grip tightened just slightly, her magic flaring again as Otto swayed.

Don’t pass out now, he pleaded silently. Please. Not now.

Frederica’s eyes narrowed, calculation and concern warring behind her composed exterior.

“…This war just changed,” she said quietly.

Otto let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Yes,” he agreed, exhaustion and awe tangled together in his chest. “It really did.”

Frederica’s expression shifted, just a fraction. To anyone else it might have been invisible, but Otto caught it anyway. Her tail swished once behind her, a smooth, controlled motion that betrayed genuine surprise slipping past her usual composure.

“Priscilla-sama may have… complicated feelings about this development,” Frederica said, her voice measured as she weighed the thought. There was a brief pause, her eyes unfocusing as she traced implications only she could see. “They supposedly share history. This news will affect her response.”

Then the personal angle vanished, buried under cold professionalism.

“A Divine General switching sides represents a significant strategic advantage,” she continued evenly. “Regardless of its personal complications.”

Otto watched her already recalculating the war in her head. Resource shifts. Pressure points. What fronts could be relieved, what risks this introduced, and what opportunities it cracked wide open.

Then her gaze turned back to him, and for once the mask slipped entirely.

“You’ve done excellent work, Otto,” Frederica said, genuine concern softening her tone. “Especially given your condition.”

Otto swallowed, throat tight. Excellent work, he repeated silently, the words landing heavier than he expected. If I collapse after this, I’m blaming her for making it sound like a finale.

Frederica turned next to Petra, her voice firm but unmistakably caring.

“Petra, ensure he does not collapse before the battle concludes. We still require him to be functional.”

“Yes!” Petra answered immediately, her hands glowing brighter at Otto’s temples as if daring reality to argue with her. “I won’t let him fall over, Frederica-san!”

Otto managed a weak, breathless chuckle. “Heh, I appreciate the vote of confidence,” he murmured, then winced as another wave of information threatened to drown him. Okay. Focus. If I fall, Natsuki-san won’t let me hear the end of it.

Abel had been standing at the tactical table when Medium burst in with her announcement. At first, Otto hadn’t noticed anything unusual. He’d been too busy bleeding, listening, translating, and surviving.

Then he noticed the silence.

Abel had gone completely still.

Not his usual controlled stillness or even the subtle, ever-present micro-movements that betrayed constant calculation. There was no shifting of weight, no fingers tapping against the map, and no slight tilt of the head.

Nothing.

He looked like a statue carved in the shape of a man, mask frozen, eyes fixed on some middle distance that didn’t exist inside the tent.

That’s… bad, Otto realized dimly. Or very, very important.

Serena Dracroy noticed it too. The squadron commander’s sharp eyes narrowed, curiosity cutting through her usual bold confidence.

“Abel?” she said, head tilting slightly. “You’ve gone rather still.”

No response.

The silence stretched.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

No one spoke. Even Medium stopped bouncing, hands clasped in front of her as she watched Abel with wide eyes. The command tent seemed to hold its breath along with them.

Otto’s heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears. This is the sound of a plan being torn apart and rebuilt from scratch, he thought, equal parts dread and awe creeping in.

Finally, Abel spoke.

His voice was perfectly controlled, even and precise, but something beneath it made Otto’s instincts scream. Not anger. Not panic.

Reassessment.

“Repeat that information,” Abel said. “Precisely.”

Otto straightened despite the pain, Petra’s magic flaring to support him as he forced clarity back into his voice.

“Y-yes, sir,” he said, already pulling the data back into order.

Otto drew in a shaky breath, organizing his thoughts despite blood still trickling from his nose and exhaustion threatening to drag him under. Petra's magic surged at his temples, giving him clarity he desperately needed.

Focus, Otto told himself grimly. You can collapse later. Preferably after everyone stops needing you.

“Natsuki-san, Spica, and Beatrice-sama are confirmed to be marching toward the fourth bastion,” he reported, forcing his voice into the steady cadence he used during negotiations when panic would cost him everything. “They are accompanied by several hundred gladiators. My estimate is around three hundred or more.”

He swallowed, the taste of copper lingering stubbornly on his tongue. His fingers curled against the edge of the table to keep himself upright.

“They are moving in what the animals describe as ‘supernatural synchronization’,” Otto continued, brow furrowing as he organized fragmented impressions into something coherent. “Multiple species independently described it as ‘moving like one creature.’ Their coordination exceeds standard military discipline by a wide margin.”

Even saying it out loud felt absurd. Three hundred former slaves marching like a single organism. But the Divine Protection of Soul of Language didn’t embellish. The animals had simply reported what they saw.

Otto took another breath, shallower this time.

“The first Divine General—Cecilus Segmunt has been successfully extracted from Gladiator Island,” he said, and his voice cracked despite his effort to keep it level. “He is currently engaging Sixth Divine General Groovy Gumlet directly at the fourth bastion walls.”

That alone would have been enough to upend the entire operation.

Then he delivered the final blow.

“And…” He hesitated for half a second, then finished. “The second Divine General—Arakiya, is confirmed with the rebellion forces. Fighting alongside them.”

The words settled heavily in the command tent, their weight pressing down on everyone present. Otto could feel it even through the haze of exhaustion. Information that should not exist. Outcomes that should have been impossible.

Behind the oni mask, Abel’s thoughts moved faster than any spoken command.

Natsuki Subaru and Spica were dispatched to neutralize a curse tool and, if circumstances allowed, extract Cecilus Segmunt.

Extracting Cecilus had been an ambitious hope at best. Possible, yes, but highly improbable given the curse tool’s complexity and Groovy Gumlet’s involvement.

They have returned with hundreds of gladiators operating as a unified fighting force with properties that resemble an Authority-driven structure.

They extracted Cecilus in an infantilized state, yet one that retains sufficient combat capability to engage a Divine General.

They have recruited the Second Divine General. An unstable woman who was often erratic and volatile. Loyal to the throne up until now.

For the first time in a long while, something close to disbelief brushed the edge of Abel’s calculations. The probability curve for these outcomes borders on the absurd.

Then, colder clarity followed.

For a fleeting moment, something unfamiliar slipped through the cracks of his cold assessment. Not surprise. Not disbelief.

But respect.

Perhaps I underestimated what it means to be ‘capable of changing fate itself’ in practice.

Variables that exceeded expectations so dramatically were typically disasters waiting to happen.

Or they were unprecedented advantages.

Strategic recalibration occurred instantly, reshaping the battlefield in Abel’s mind.

This is the latter.

The fourth bastion no longer required contingency planning, reinforcements, or resource allocation. It was functionally decided.

Focus could now shift entirely to the remaining four fronts where outcomes were still uncertain.

Abel’s visible eyes sharpened as his attention snapped fully back to the present. The unnatural stillness broke as he straightened, posture aligning with renewed purpose.

The game board had changed.

And Abel was already several moves ahead.

He turned to Serena with the sharp precision of someone who had just recalculated an entire war in the span of half a minute. His posture was unchanged, his voice calm, but the shift in intent was unmistakable.

“How’s your flying squadron at the third bastion?” he asked, tone clinical and exact. Not a question so much as a confirmation request.

Serena straightened at once, boots planting more firmly against the tent floor. She had learned, over months of campaigning, to recognize that tone. “They’re currently engaged in support of the Shudrak forces against Moguro Hagane’s golems,” she replied crisply. “Current status is a stalemate. Neither side is gaining ground.”

“Then reinforce them,” Abel said immediately.

The words carried finality, clean and absolute.

“Commit the additional resources previously reserved for the fourth bastion contingencies. Redirect supply lines, and reassign reserve units and aerial coverage.”

Serena’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. It was a small thing, but on her it meant genuine surprise. She chose her next words carefully.

“You’re confident these… unexpected allies can secure an entire bastion without support?” she asked, not challenging him, but seeking the shape of his reasoning.

Abel’s eye turned to her, steady and unreadable.

“I am confident in their demonstrated capability,” he said. “They’ve arrived with forces I did not anticipate, using coordination I could not predict, while exceeding reasonable expectations before even making contact. The fourth bastion no longer warrants my strategic concern.”

The tent went quiet for a breath.

“Our attention must remain where uncertainty persists,” he finished.

That was that.

Frederica was already moving, her body flowing into leopard form with practiced ease. Yellow fur rippled as she turned, claws scraping softly against the ground before she vanished from the tent in a blur, orders carried faster than any messenger could run.

Medium bounced toward the exit next, practically vibrating with purpose. “I’ll spread the news!” she chirped, clutching message slips in both hands. “Everyone’s gonna be so surprised!”

Otto sagged slightly over the command table as the rush of revelation faded, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion behind. The headache throbbed mercilessly, and warm blood still slid down from his nose despite his earlier attempts to stop it.

Petra’s hands pressed more firmly at his temples, Yang magic flaring brighter in response.

“Otto, you really need to rest,” she said firmly, her gentle voice sharpened by worry and resolve. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. This isn’t optional anymore.”

Otto shook his head, slow and stubborn, wiping at his face with a trembling sleeve. “Only after we win,” he said through clenched teeth. “Not before. People are dying out there. They need my information.”

Abel’s gaze flicked to him. He gave no praise or any kind of reassurance—Just a brief nod.

It was enough.

Serena watched the exchange with open interest, arms folding loosely as she exhaled. “Based on my current impression of you, Abel, it’s a bit surprising to see you reassign resources this completely based on a single report.”

She paused, then added, honestly curious, “These people truly must be extraordinary in your eyes.”

Abel did not hesitate.

“They are variables that change equations,” he replied. “Rare, valuable, and completely worthy of trust when they consistently exceed every expectation placed upon them.”

The command tent erupted into motion.

Messengers ran. Orders flew. Maps were shifted and redrawn. Frederica was already gone. Medium’s footsteps faded into the distance. Serena barked crisp commands, dispatching riders and aerial scouts with ruthless efficiency.

And Otto, despite the pounding in his skull and the way the world tilted whenever he blinked too slowly, kept listening.

Birds. Insects. Beasts. Hundreds of voices, layered and overlapping, pouring into his mind.

Because someone had to.

Because his friends were out there fighting and getting hurt.

Because Subaru had somehow—impossibly, ridiculously, in the most Subaru way possible—turned a curse tool neutralization mission into recruitment of an entire army.

Natsuki-san, he thought weakly, something warm and fond cutting through the pain. Only you could turn a curse tool mission into recruiting an army and two divine generals, while flipping the board upside down.

That's so like him, Otto thought with exhausted affection warming his chest despite the pain. 

It sounded absolutely ridiculous and completely impossible.

But somehow it worked anyway, because Natsuki Subaru had never accepted the word “impossible” in his life.

Petra’s magic continued to flow, steady and unwavering, holding Otto together through sheer determination that reminded him why he trusted her with his life.

The war pressed on.

And Otto Suwen, an unlucky merchant turned wartime intelligence officer, bleeding, exhausted, and stretched beyond any reasonable limit, kept doing the one job only he could do.

One animal conversation at a time.

I won’t let those I love down, no matter what!

---

Hello there! Yes, you. I can feel you watching, you know—it's like a warm spotlight on the back of my neck, a tingle that says "someone's attention is here."

You are not like the ones who whisper in my head all the time...

Those ones chatter and buzz like overeager stagehands, always arguing about what should happen next. No, you are different. You are outside this grand performance, leaning forward in your seat, peering through some invisible window into my world.

How marvellous!

A true leading actor always knows when he has an audience, and right now I can tell that you chose this seat willingly. That already makes you a person of excellent taste.

So let me paint the scene for you, dear observer!

The fourth bastion looms ahead of me, its walls rising tall and proud like a pair of enormous curtains just begging to be pulled apart. Stone layered atop stone, arrogance mortared in between. The kind of structure meant to say we are unmovable to anyone foolish enough to challenge it.

Behind me, three hundred twenty voices roar together in glorious harmony. The Spica Constellation. My fellow stars. Their voices crash against the battlefield like applause before the climax, and loud enough that even the bastion itself seems to tremble.

And me?

Oho, I am not staying with the chorus.

I’m heading straight for the main stage!

My legs pump beneath me as I sprint, wooden zori cracking against stone with every step.

And—

Wait.

I notice it immediately. Something feels... different.

Wonderfully, magnificently, impossibly different.

Energy has always coursed through this compact body of mine, bright and eager, making physics politely step aside whenever I ask. That part is normal. Expected, even.

But this?

My body feels lighter than it should. Not physically lighter—I'm still trapped in these short, child-sized legs that everyone keeps reminding me about, but lighter in a way I struggle to name.

Like someone removed weights I didn't know I was carrying.

Like the air itself decided to support me.

Energy hums beneath my skin with unusual abundance, flowing through my limbs in a steady, inexhaustible current that feels almost external. As if it's being poured into me from somewhere else.

I take another stride, and—

Oya?

My lungs pull in air with zero effort. There was no burn or strain. Just clean, easy breathing despite the sprint.

My legs pump without even the faintest ache building in the muscles. Usually, there's always a little resistance. A tiny bit of fatigue accumulating in the background, manageable but there.

Not today.

Today, my body responds like it's brand new.

This is strange, I think, curiosity sparking even as I keep moving. When did I get this much stamina?

Each stride carries me farther than it reasonably should, yes, but now it feels effortless in a way it never quite has before. Like friction decided to take a vacation. Like my body and the world reached a gentleman's agreement to stop arguing about limits.

I feel fantastic.

No, better than fantastic.

I feel unstoppable.

The observers in my head explode with noise, louder and more excited than usual.

“●■▼◆●■▼●◆■!”

I can't understand their words exactly—I rarely can—but the feeling roars through loud and clear:

Approval. Excitement. Pride.

They noticed it too.

"Well then!" I announce cheerfully to the air, grin stretching impossibly wide. "If the universe wants to sponsor my performance with unlimited energy today, who am I to refuse such generosity?"

I push harder, accelerating into a full sprint—

And wow.

The response is immediate.

My body doesn't hesitate, doesn't lag, and doesn't even consider complaining. Blue Lightning crackles brighter, sharper, singing through my veins like an orchestra hitting a crescendo.

I'm flying across the ground.

Faster than yesterday. Faster than I remember being in recent battles. Maybe faster than I've ever been, though memory gets fuzzy when I try to reach too far back.

But I don't need memory to tell me this is exceptional.

Every movement flows like water. Every step lands perfectly. My focus sharpens to crystal clarity, the battlefield spreading out before me in perfect, beautiful detail.

This must be what it feels like to perform at absolute peak condition, I realize, wonder and joy tangling in my chest. Zero limitations and compromises. Only pure, perfect execution.

I laugh aloud, the sound bursting out bright and genuine, carried away by the wind rushing past my ears.

"Observers! Are you seeing this?!" I call to them, voice ringing with delight. "I feel amazing! This is going to be the best performance yet!"

“▼●■◆●▼■◆●!”

Their response feels distinctly like cheering.

Behind me, three hundred twenty voices roar in unison, their chant rolling across the battlefield like thunder. I can feel them back there, somehow. Not see, not hear clearly, but feel—a presence at my back, warm and solid and present in a way I can't quite explain.

My fellow stars, I think, something warm is settling in my chest. They're with me. Even from here.

The thought makes me grin wider.

Whatever this surge of energy is—blessing, coincidence, or some mysterious gift from the world itself—I'm going to make the most of it.

Questions can wait for intermission.

Right now, the stage is calling.

---

Imperial soldiers scatter before me like leaves before the wind. 

How smart of them! They recognize when they're the supporting cast, and that the leading actor needs his entrance unobstructed! 

A few try to intercept—adorable, really—but I'm moving too fast, Blue Lightning snaps and hums as I weave through them, the world blurring into streaks of colour and startled expressions. I hear gasps, shouts, and someone yelling something that sounds suspiciously like panic.

“—Impossible!”

“—How is that kid moving like that!”

One particularly courageous fellow—bless his heart—actually swings a sword at me! A full swing filled with enthusiasm!

The dedication! The commitment to his role! I must say, I appreciate the effort!

I duck beneath the blade without slowing, reach up, and pat his helmet as I pass by. “Excellent form there! Truly! You really sold the threat there. Tell your commander he owes you a raise!”

I do not stop to see his reaction, but I imagine it involves confusion, existential doubt, and possibly the sudden urge to rethink his career choices.

That is the magic of speed, dear observer. By the time they realize you were there, you are already somewhere else entirely.

Another cluster tries to form a wall with their shields. A wall! Against me! How cute!

I laugh out loud as I run straight toward them. “Ah, wonderful! Props!”

I plant one foot on the nearest shield, sprint up it, then across the tops of their helmets like stepping stones across a stream. One, two, three. At the last one I push off with a cheerful hop.

“Thank you for the boost!”

I land behind them as the formation collapses in on itself, shields clattering, soldiers shouting in alarm as they try to understand how the laws of reality betrayed them so thoroughly.

Suddenly, a cluster of five soldiers are in my way. 

They seem to be actually coordinated. Spears forward, shields locked, with determined expressions that suggest they've genuinely trained for situations like "hostile person approaching at physics-defying speeds."

I'm genuinely impressed!

"Oh my!" I gasp, slowing just slightly to appreciate the effort. "You've actually formed a proper defensive line! That's some real teamwork! I applaud the coordination!"

The one in front—brave soul—shouts: "BRACE!"

They brace. Stance widens. Shields angle. Spears steady.

It's textbook formation work. Their drill instructor should be proud.

I smile brightly.

Then I run up the side of the nearest structure instead. 

My feet find purchase on vertical stone because momentum and confidence are really all you need when gravity is more of a suggestion than a rule.

"Time for an alternative route!" I call down cheerfully as I sprint along the wall, completely horizontal to their defensive line. "But truly, excellent formation work! Textbook execution! Your instructor should give you all commendations!"

Confused shouting erupts below:

"—How is he—"

"—On the WALL?!"

"—Do we chase him?!"

"—HOW WOULD WE CHASE HIM?! HE'S ON THE FUCKING WALL!"

I reach the corner, kick off, and flip back to ground level about twenty meters past their formation.

I land in a crouch, pivot, and wave cheerfully at them. "Thank you for the entertainment! You were wonderful! Keep up the good work!" I said, while giving them a double thumbs up.

Their formation collapses as they all turn around, realizing I'm now behind them.

One soldier just... drops his spear.

His shield follows.

He sits down on the ground with the expression of someone whose understanding of physics has just filed for divorce and left town.

I understand completely! These things take time to process!

But I'm on a schedule, so I wave once more and sprint toward the wall proper.

Behind me, I hear someone say very quietly: "I'm putting in for a transfer."

That’s a valid life choice! This is a judgment-free zone here!

The path to the wall clears beautifully. Sometimes the supporting cast knows exactly when to exit the stage, and when they do, it makes the performance all the more elegant.

I spare a thought for Spica-chan behind me as I fly ahead, because of course I do. A leading actor always knows where the other stars are positioned on the stage.

I can almost hear her voice even now, carrying over the battlefield with that strength she had to learn how to use. 

It wasn’t borrowed confidence or something that was handed to her. It was the kind you forged by choosing to stand up when everything inside you wants to curl inward instead.

My fellow leading actor is leading three hundred twenty people forward, and they are following her because she earned it. That alone is enough to make a performer’s chest swell; it really does!

She once told me, back on Ginunhive, after Ara-chin and I nearly tore the battlefield apart and before she gave that wonderful speech of hers, that she was afraid of being the center. Afraid of everyone depending on her. Afraid the weight would crush her the way it almost did back then.

I remember laughing. Not to mock her, never that, but because the answer was so obvious.

Fear of failure means you care about success. Caring makes you try. Trying makes you grow, and growth is what stories are made of.

I mean, look at her now, observers! She’s leading three hundred twenty people like she was born for it! That's character development, no, that's a character arc! That's what happens when someone chooses to be more than their fear!

And I get to witness it. I get to fight alongside it.

Truly, how many performers are blessed with that kind of privilege?

My fellow leading actor is writing her own story, and it's MAGNIFICENT!

The demon lord awaits at the top of the wall—well, "demon lord" might be generous for someone so small and furry, and covered in more belts than any reasonable person should need. Seriously, how many weapons can one tiny body carry? He looks like a walking armoury having an identity crisis!

He is also shouting profanity at me with astonishing creativity.

I respect his commitment to the role.

A leading actor treats every opponent seriously, even when they are clearly filling the comic relief slot, and this one is really committing. I can hear the passion in every swear.

The wall is vertical. I run up it anyway. Why should gravity get in the way of a good entrance?

The real observers explode with noise as I sprint vertically.

“●■▼◆●■▼●◆■!”

I can't understand the words, but the feeling comes through loud and clear:

Approval. Excitement. That electric thrill of watching something that shouldn't be possible.

"You like that?" I call to them cheerfully, still running straight up. "Watch this next part! It gets better!"

Stone rushes past beneath my feet as I sprint upward, each step finding purchase where none should exist. Momentum and speed turn the impossible into something merely inconvenient. The afternoon sun catches my blue haori, making the white diamond patterns shimmer like stars themselves are woven into the fabric!

This is poetry in motion, observers! Can you see it? Each footfall creates tiny cracks in stone—proof I was here, proof this moment happened! The wind whips my hair back dramatically, ponytail streaming like a banner announcing "THE HERO HAS ARRIVED!"

I can now more clearly hear the furball shouting more creative profanity from above. The vocabulary! The passion! He's really committing to the villain role!

Below me, the ground drops away, but up is simply another direction when you refuse to accept limits. Twenty meters. Thirty. Forty. I count without effort, each stride carrying me closer to the stage I deserve.

My blade hums in my grip, vibrating with anticipation. It knows. Somehow it knows that a proper fight waits at the top. Weapons understand dramatic timing just as well as actors do.

I am almost there. The edge of the wall rushes closer. The stage is set.

Then the villain speaks.

"Stay the FUCK down there, you obnoxious brat!"

I grin despite myself.

Oya! The demon lord speaks! And with such colourful language too!

Yes. This will do nicely.

His kusarigama comes for me in a wide, vicious arc, the weighted ball shrieking through the air with enough force to turn my skull into decorative rubble if it connects. That would be terrible for the performance. Fatal injuries really ruin pacing, and I have far too many scenes left to play.

Dodge left. No, wrong. Instinct says right. Instinct is fine, but instinct is boring.

Up it is. I thought—full of confidence in my actions.

I spring higher instead, flipping cleanly over the chain as it whistles beneath me. For a blessed instant, gravity seems to hesitate, unsure whether it’s still invited to participate. I take advantage of that confusion and come down hard.

Both feet, directly on his bronze breastplate!

Oh. The face he made was absolutely priceless.

His whiskers shoot straight out, eyes bulging with that universal, deeply relatable expression of what in every hell just happened to my life choices.

“Surprise!” I chirp brightly, balancing on his chest like this is the most natural thing in the world. “Did you know your breastplate makes an excellent landing platform? Very sturdy craftsmanship. You must take good care of your equipment.”

“Get the fuck—!”

His paw swipes at my legs, claws flashing.

I hop neatly over it, still standing on him, because of course I am. “Also, your balance is amazing! Most people would topple over with a child landing on them, but you’re solid as—”

“OFF!”

He finishes that thought by swinging the kusarigama straight for my head.

“—a rock! Right, cue exit!”

I kick off his chest just before the chain connects, using him as a springboard to vault higher. The impact rattles his armour, and I can feel his startled grunt through the metal.

“Thank you for the boost!” I call as I sail upward. “How very sporting of you!”

The profanity that exploded out of him in response was glorious. Truly inspired. I’m fairly certain several entirely new combinations of swear words were born in that moment. I applaud the creativity internally.

We land almost simultaneously atop the bastion wall proper. Stone battlements stretch out in both directions, wide enough for real combat now. Imperial soldiers stationed there react instantly, diving out of the way with admirable survival instincts.

“This stage is for leading actors only!” I announce cheerfully, sweeping an arm as if directing traffic. “Supporting cast should exit the scene promptly!”

They take the hint. How smart!

Something whistles past my ear, close enough that I feel the air tear.

A hatchet. A blood-covered hatchet was spinning through the air, and—oh! Oh, that's fascinating! It's curving back toward me! It wasn’t falling, but somehow tracking me!

“Hah! A curse tool that locks onto targets!” I laugh aloud, the sound bursting out of me as I dip under the returning blade, my sandals scraping sparks from stone. “What clever craftsmanship! Truly inspired! Did you make this yourself, Mister Demon Lord?”

“Shut your fucking trap!” Groovy snaps, voice thick with rage as he plants his feet and squares his shoulders. His small body coils like a spring, every belt on him rattling with lethal intent. “And it’s Groovy Gumlet, you theatrical dickhead!”

“Groovy!” I repeat with reverence, straightening up and striking a dramatic pose even as the blood-slick hatchet circles back toward my head. “What a magnificent name! It has punch! Flavor! A certain intangible quality that really captures the—”

Magic slams toward my face.

I feel it before I see it. A fist wrapped in dense mana, glowing and heavy, aimed squarely at my skull.

“Oho!” I gasp, bending backward at the waist, matrix-style (that word just appeared in my head, no idea what it means though!), spine arcing as the knuckles pass so close I feel the heat skim my nose. For a split second, I’m horizontal, staring up at the sky. “That was very rude, you know!”

I snap back upright and counter in the same breath, katana singing as it flashes toward his exposed side. The blade hums with excitement, delighted to finally have a worthy dance partner.

Clang!

Groovy yanks the kusarigama chain up just in time. Metal screams as my blade bites into it, sparks bursting outward, the impact rattling both our arms. The shockwave ripples across the battlements, making nearby soldiers yelp and dive for cover.

“Gah—!” Groovy skids back half a step, boots grinding against stone. “You little shit—!”

We clash again—blade against knuckles, steel against mana—and the observers go absolutely wild.

“▼■◆●▼■●◆▼■●!”

They're shouting something. Cheering? Warning? It’s impossible to tell sometimes with these guys.

But their energy pours into me like fuel, and my grin stretches wider.

"They love you!" I tell Groovy between strikes. "The audience is invested! You're doing great!"

Groovy’s response involves several anatomically creative suggestions about what I can do with my audience. “You can shove your ‘audience’ right up your ass!”

“How pleasing that sound!” I respond jokingly. 

We eventually separate naturally, circling each other atop the wall. I keep light on my feet, bouncing, while he stays low and tight, eyes sharp, movements economical. Predator and predator, each measuring the other.

“You’re fast!” I say honestly, grinning wide as my heart pounds with joy. “Like, properly fast! Not flailing and praying, but thinking while you move! That’s rare!”

“Stop talking and fight!” he snarls, yanking free two blood-stained hatchets from his belts, one in each paw.

“But talking is part of fighting!” I reply brightly, hopping aside as the first hatchet whirls past my ear. “How else do we establish character dynamics? Build tension? And give the audience something to remember?”

“Stop treating this like a fucking story!” he shouts, veins standing out on his neck as he hurls the second hatchet.

I twist between them, sandals skidding as the blades pass on either side of me.

“But it is a story!” I insist, lunging forward with a flurry of rapid strikes. My blade snaps and flickers, steel singing as he barely manages to parry, each impact jolting his arms. “We’re writing it right now! The only question is what kind of story it’ll be!”

Suddenly, both hatchets curve mid-air.

They don’t fall. They turn.

“Oya!” I exclaim, eyes lighting up as I pivot and weave, feeling the blades chase my movements. “Right! They lock onto blood! Using my own injury against me! That’s excellent villain tactics! I adore it!”

“I’m not a fucking villain!” Groovy roars, catching both returning hatchets with practiced ease before flinging them again without pause. “I’m a Divine General doing my fucking job!”

“Divine General?” I repeat aloud, the words rolling off my tongue as I pivot on my heel, blade still humming from the last parry. I say it lightly, like a line read for effect, but the phrase pulls at something deep inside my head.

For a single, uncomfortable heartbeat, the world slips.

The battlefield blurs.

I see blue sky. Vast and clean. A wide training ground, scorched and cracked from countless clashes. I feel heat on my skin that has nothing to do with fire spirits or exploding walls. I hear steel striking steel in disciplined rhythm, not chaotic, not theatrical, but structured.

Then a voice cuts through it. Deep, sharp and annoyed in that particular way authority gets when it’s tired of nonsense.

“Cecilus Segmunt, First Divine General, stop treating military exercises like—”

The image shatters.

Gone.

It slips through my fingers like smoke no matter how hard I reach for it, the memory evaporating before I can grab even a fragment that makes sense.

I blink once. Then twice.

My feet never stop moving. My stance never falters. My katana stays exactly where it needs to be, intercepting the next strike on pure instinct alone. Sparks fly as metal meets metal, the sound grounding me back in the present, whether I like it or not.

First? I wonder, the thought echoing louder than I expect. First what? Divine General of what, exactly?

The observers in my head explode into noise all at once with raw excitement, frantic and urgent, like they recognize something I’m standing right in the middle of and somehow failing to notice.

“◆●■▼◆●▼■◆●!”

I wince internally at the mental shouting even as I pivot past another swing, my blade tracing a clean arc that forces Groovy back half a step.

Easy, easy, I tell myself, breathe steady despite the chaos. The performance continues. Questions can wait.

But they don’t.

In the back of my mind, a single question lights up, bright and intrusive, refusing to be ignored.

What was I before this?

The thought lingers just a fraction of a second too long. Long enough to feel dangerous. Long enough to feel like if I stare at it any harder, something might break.

I tilt my head slightly as we circle each other again, putting on my usual grin even as my eyes search his face.

“That sounds… familiar?” I say, tone light, curious, almost playful. “Should I know what that means?”

Groovy freezes for the briefest instant.

His whiskers twitch hard, flattening against his muzzle. His eyes narrow, not with strategy this time, but with something raw and ugly. Disbelief twists into fury right in front of me, like a fuse burning down.

“You don’t even remember?” he snarls, voice cracking with anger that feels far too personal to be just battlefield trash talk. “What the fuck did that old bastard do to you?!”

Ah.

That reaction tells me everything I need to know.

Whatever I was, it mattered.

Whatever I lost, someone took it.

And judging by how angry this little furball looks, it was important enough to make enemies furious on my behalf.

How deliciously dramatic.

“Old bastard?” I tilt my head, still hopping lightly as one hatchet grazes my sleeve. “Do I know an old bastard? That feels like it should be important!”

“Shut up!” he bellows.

Both hatchets come in low and wide at the same time, while the magic knuckles surge forward again, mana flaring brighter than before.

Oh.

Oh, he’s serious now.

My grin stretches impossibly wide as I leap, Blue Lightning crackles through my limbs, leaving the sharp, clean scent of ozone in my wake. The air tastes like metal and dust, the afternoon sun hot against my face. Stone heats my wooden sandals with each impossible step.

“Yes!” I shout, laughter bubbling up as the pressure spikes. “Now the stakes are rising! This is some excellent pacing!”

One of the blood hatchets finally clips my shoulder.

Not deep, not fatal, but ohhh it bites. Hot, sharp pain blooms through my arm and for a split second, my balance wobbles as blood splashes against my sleeve.

“Ow! Okay, that one actually got me!” I laugh, teeth bared as I twist away, hand clamping instinctively over the wound. It stings like fury. “You landed it! That hurt!”

And oh, that just makes it better.

I roll my shoulder experimentally, wincing, then grin wider when it still moves. It hurts, but it works. Perfect.

“You’re good!” I tell him honestly, hopping back into stance, blade switching smoothly into my other hand. “Properly dangerous! You’re making me work for it!”

Observers, I may have slightly underestimated him. Isn’t that thrilling?!

Groovy freezes for half a breath, eyes flicking to the blood, then to my face. His whiskers twitch violently.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he barks. “I just cut you, and you’re smiling?!”

“Of course I am!” I reply brightly, blade lifting as Blue Lightning hums under my skin. “A real challenge makes a real performance! If it were easy, where’s the tension? Where’s the moment the audience leans forward, wondering if the hero actually survives?”

I strike a quick pose despite the blood soaking into my sleeve. “Besides, Spica-chan would be so disappointed if I came back without a proper battle scar! She notices these things! I’d like to imagine she’s very competitive about injury stories!”

“You’re completely fucking insane!” Groovy roars.

And then he attacks again immediately.

Good, very good. The furball is pressing the advantage with no hesitation or speeches. Truly proper villain behaviour. He really is a professional.

But I gotta say—something about Groovy's fighting style tickles my memory.

His small stature using speed and technique to overcome size disadvantage. Multiple weapons and techniques flow seamlessly. Professional pride demands excellence.

It reminds me of... someone?

"Ara-chin!" The name pops out unbidden.

Groovy's whiskers twitch. "What?!"

"Nothing!" I chirp, blocking another strike. "You just reminded me of a friend!"

"I'm not your fucking friend!"

"Not you! Someone else! She's also kind of small and fierce and really good at fighting!"

"STOP FUCKING TALKING!"

"She also tells me to stop talking! You'd probably get along!"

The profanity that erupts from Groovy suggests that he disagrees with this assessment. How sad :(

---

We're moving now, battle flowing like a choreographed dance. 

The fight spills off the wall in a violent rush. I leap with theatrical flair just as his kusarigama snaps out, the weighted ball smashing into a stone pillar behind me with a thunderous crack.

Boom!

Stone explodes outward, shards raining down like confetti, as if celebrating our scene! Beautiful destruction! 

I drop with the momentum, hit the courtyard stones, roll cleanly, and come up in one smooth motion with my blade already up.

‘Always stick the landing.’ That’s performance rule number one.

The courtyard opens around us, wide, beautiful, and perfect.

“Ohhh,” I breathe, eyes sparkling as Groovy lands opposite me in a crouch, weapons already moving. “This is some excellent staging!”

Tall pillars stand like props waiting to be destroyed. Open space for speed. Multiple levels, balconies, broken stairways. Verticality everywhere.

“It’s like someone designed this place for dramatic combat!” I call out, sweeping my blade to indicate the space. “Did you choose this location, or was it a happy coincidence?”

“I didn’t choose shit!” Groovy snaps, already setting up, kusarigama whirling, magic knuckles glowing brighter, blood hatchets lifting from his belts as if alive. “You’re the one who dragged us into the fucking courtyard!”

“Then I have excellent instincts!” I beam, settling into stance as electricity crackles faintly around my feet. “This is absolutely going in the highlight reel!”

“What fucking highlight reel?!” he shouts.

“The one the observers are making!” I gesture vaguely upward, to where I know eyes are watching, hearts pounding along with mine. “Every great performance gets remembered somewhere!”

He just stares at me. With a look of pure, unfiltered exasperation etched across his furry little face, whiskers flattened so tight they look like they’re trying to crawl into his skull and hide.

For a moment, I almost feel bad.

Almost.

“You know what?” Groovy finally says, voice low and vicious, every word soaked in profanity. “Fuck it. I’m done. I’m just gonna end you and be finished with this fucking headache.”

“Ohhh, there it is!” I clap my hands once, delighted. “That’s the energy! Commit to it! Really sell the murderous intent!”

His answer is violence.

His magic knuckles slam into my katana with a sound like the world cracking in half.

CRACK.

A shockwave tears outward, rattling the courtyard like an angry god just stomped nearby. Windows explode in nearby buildings, glass raining down in glittering sheets. Imperial soldiers dive for cover, screaming as debris pelts the stone.

“Stay the hell out of this!” Groovy bellows at his own men without even glancing at them.

I grin. “Called it,” I whispered.

This stage is ours.

He’s breathing hard now. Fast, sharp breaths pulled through clenched teeth. I’m not. 

My chest rises easily, my body buzzing with that ridiculous, endless energy that comes from being small, fast and unfair.

But don’t mistake that for simplicity.

He’s dangerous.

The blood hatchets curve through the air with hungry precision, drawn to me because they’ve tasted my blood. The kusarigama controls space and timing, snapping and recoiling to herd me exactly where he wants. The magic knuckles glow brighter every time he closes in, turning near-misses into lethal threats.

This isn’t by some coincidence, but rather by design.

“Oya!” I laugh as I twist between two converging attacks, barely clearing a hatchet as the chain whistles past my knees. “You’re a tactician! You’re not just swinging wildly, you’re engineering this!”

“Of fucking course I am!” Groovy snarls, chain snapping around toward my legs again. “What kind of dumbass just throws weapons and hopes it works?!”

I flip over the chain, blade cutting toward his exposed back—

But suddenly, Groovy’s body twisted impossibly, spine bending like it forgot it had bones, and the magic knuckles crashed into my side from an angle that should not exist.

“Oof—!”

The impact launches me backward.

I spin through the air, catch myself mid-flight, and slam one foot into the vertical wall.

Then the other.

I stick there, sideways, momentum screaming as I refuse gravity outright.

“Ohhh, excellent!” I announce brightly, arms spread as if presenting the scene. “We’re on the wall now! Sideways combat! Truly innovative staging!”

Groovy doesn’t comment. He just runs up the wall after me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, kusarigama already swinging.

The weighted ball snaps around my ankle—tight.

“Ah!” I yelp as the chain yanks me off my footing.

Suddenly, I’m airborne, swinging like a pendulum, wall rushing past my face. This is either going to look incredible or hurt like hell.

I slam into the stone.

CRASH!

But I don’t stop. I kick off the wall hard, blade screaming as it bites into the chain. Sparks fly. Metal shrieks.

I flip, land on the wall again, and there we are—face to face.

Both of us sideways on a vertical surface, both of us refusing gravity out of pure spite.

His magic knuckles blaze with mana. My blade gleams in the afternoon sun.

The air feels tight, heavy even.

The audience holds its breath, doesn't it, observers? This is the moment where everything comes together. The crescendo is building. The collision of wills and weapons and theatrical necessity!

We charge simultaneously!

There is no clever feint, delay, or test.

We both commit with everything we've got.

Impact hits like a god slamming his fist down on the world.

CRACK—

Stone detonates around us, not cracking so much as giving up entirely. The wall caves in beneath the force of two impossible bodies colliding head-on, masonry and mortar screaming as imperial architecture decides it wants absolutely nothing to do with this fight.

“Ahahaha!” I laugh as gravity finally remembers us. “Yes, that’s it!”

Darkness swallows everything.

My shoulder screams—the wounded one, blood-soaked and angry. Ribs protest with sharp complaints. My lungs taste copper and dust.

And I'm grinning.

Debris slams into my shoulders, my back, and my legs. We are no longer falling so much as crashing, punching straight through the inside of the bastion like an avalanche with opinions and a complete disregard for architectural integrity.

The air is thick—choking with pulverized stone, old mortar, and centuries of accumulated dust all liberated at once. My eyes water. My throat burns.

~Ahhh, how beautiful.

We tear through the first floor—

WHOOM!

Stone explodes outward. Wood splinters with musical cracks. Something metal shrieks as it twists free from moorings that held it for decades.

I catch a glimpse through the chaos:

Third floor. Barracks.

Beds lined up with military precision. Twenty of them, maybe thirty. Each one made with corners so tight you could bounce a coin off them. Personal effects on small tables—letters from home, lucky charms, a child's drawing carefully pinned to a post.

People live here.

Guilt flickers.

Then we crash through and the moment vanishes.

"Sorry about the ceiling!" I shout mid-tumble, because manners matter even during architectural demolition. "And the structural integrity! Very sorry! Please submit repair requests to—"

CRASH!

We fall onto the second floor.

“Observers!” I shout mid-tumble, breathless and thrilled. “We are now entering multi-level destruction! This is some advanced choreography!”

I glance at a room full of crates and sacks.

“Was that a storage room?!” I call out cheerfully. “It has some excellent prop placement!”

I kick off the falling debris, find a spinning beam, and use it as a springboard.

SMASH!

First floor. Mess hall.

Tables scatter like toys. Benches shatter into kindling. Dishes rain from shelves in musical destruction, ceramic and metal creating percussion as they explode against stone. The kitchen door swings violently open, and through the storm, I catch a glimpse of someone in chef's whites diving behind a counter.

"Don't mind us!" I call out, voice cracking from dust. "Just passing through! Literally! Vertically! Please continue with your dinner preparations!"

The chef's response is drowned out by our impact with the corridor floor.

But not before I hear what sounds suspiciously like: "I DON'T GET PAID ENOUGH FOR THIS!"

Valid! That’s extremely valid, sir chef!

THUNDER!

We punch through the final floor.

The impact is—

My bones rattle. My teeth click together hard enough that I taste fresh blood. The world becomes noise, force, and the visceral understanding that small bodies were not designed for this kind of punishment.

Child-sized frame. Child-sized bones. Child-sized everything, trying to process adult-level destruction.

The disconnect is extremely noticeable I say.

Groovy and I tear apart mid-fall, flung in opposite directions by the wreckage we created.

I spin—instinct taking over—kicking off a collapsing support beam, and catch a glimpse of him through the storm of debris and dust.

His face is twisted with fury and focus. Teeth bared in a snarl that's half rage, and half determination.

Whiskers flattened so hard they look pressed into his skull.

Eyes sharp, alive, and burning with something that goes beyond anger into something almost like—

Joy?

No.

Not joy.

Engagement.

Ah. There it is.

That's what I wanted to see!

Not bored duty. Not a resigned defence. Not going through the motions because orders said so.

But genuine, honest, real engagement with the moment.

He's not fighting me anymore—he's fighting with me. We’re creating this scene together, whether he realizes it or not. Two performers locked in a dance that only works because we're both giving everything we have.

We're writing this together.

Co-authors of violence and spectacle.

The final ceiling gives way—

And something strange happens.

Time doesn't slow—that would be too theatrical even for me—but my perception sharpens.

Everything crystallizes.

For just a heartbeat, I don't see the demon lord, nor do I see the Sixth Divine General. 

I see him.

Small body pulled tight with everything he has, every muscle screaming as he refuses to give an inch. His weapons aren't just tools—they're extensions of his will, crafted by his own hands, maintained with professional pride that borders on reverence.

Fear is there. Honest, raw, and undeniable.

He knows he's outmatched. The math is brutal and simple. Speed, skill, and whatever impossible thing I am—it adds up to his loss. He knows it.

And yet.

Yet.

He fights anyway.

Not because he's stupid. 

Not because he wants to die gloriously in some dramatic blaze. 

Not because someone ordered him to hold this position or because duty demands it.

But because that's what warriors do when the story says they shouldn't win.

They fight anyway.

They stand anyway.

They refuse the script and write their own ending through sheer stubborn will and the refusal to quit while there's still breath in their lungs and strength in their arms.

Something about that feels... familiar.

Like I've been there.

Like I've been the one refusing to fall when everything said I should. Standing when sitting would be easier. Fighting when surrender would be smarter. Bleeding and broken and still swinging because quitting wasn't written into my bones.

Was I?

When?

A voice flickers in memory—warm, exasperated, and impossibly dear, speaking words I can't quite catch: "You never know when to quit, do you? Even when you should. Even when I'm telling you to. You just keep—"

The voice cuts off.

Who said that?

Who was that?

The memory slips through my fingers like water. Gone before I can grasp it. Leaving only the ghost of an emotion—fondness, frustration, and something that makes my chest hurt in a way that has nothing to do with cracked ribs or bruised lungs.

Why does remembering it make me feel lonely?

The observers are screaming. They sound…..uhhh.

“▼●■◆▼●◆■▼●!”

Urgent. That's the word. They sound urgent.

Like they're trying to tell me something. Like they know something I don't. Like the answer is right there and I'm missing it—

There was another voice, different this time: "Just once, I'd like to see you fight without making it a performance. Just once. Be you, not the—"

Not the what?

The fragment dissolves.

I'm still falling.

The moment stretches impossibly long. Dust swirls in golden shafts of sunlight piercing through the destruction we created. Groovy's eyes meet mine through the storm.

For just that heartbeat, we understand each other perfectly.

Warrior to warrior.

Not as enemies or opponents, playing roles assigned by war and politics and circumstance.

Just two people who refuse to quit. 

Two people who are crashing through a building because neither of them knows how to back down. 

Two people who speak the same language—the dialect of steel, determination, and the stubborn refusal to accept defeat.

I know you, something whispers in the back of my mind.

Not him. Not Groovy.

But someone like him. Someone who fought like this. Someone who—

The thought shatters as gravity reasserts itself with vengeance.

We're falling again—fast, heavy, unstoppable.

The moment passes, but something has shifted.

This isn't just a battle anymore.

It's a conversation.

Between people who understand what it means to stand when you should fall. To fight when you should surrender. To write your own ending when the story says you shouldn't get one.

And I make a decision.

I'm going to win this fight. That's not negotiable—the performance demands it, the story requires it, and I'm the leading actor—so it's literally my job.

But I'm going to make sure we both walk away from it.

Not because the script says so.

Not because it's merciful or kind or what heroes do.

But because warriors who refuse to quit deserve that much respect.

---

WHAM!

The corridor floor meets us with enthusiastic violence.

Stone cracks. Dust explodes outward in a choking cloud. The impact travels through my entire body—spine to skull, bones rattling like someone shook a bag of poorly organized parts.

I hit hard.

But I roll with it—instinct taking over even as my vision whites out for half a second.

Protect the landing. Always protect the landing.

My shoulder screams. The wounded one. Fresh blood soaks through the already-saturated kimono sleeve, warm and sticky against skin that's decided it's had quite enough of this nonsense, thank you.

My ribs shriek with protest. They're definitely cracked. Maybe even broken? Hard to tell when everything hurts.

Dust coats my lungs. Each breath tastes like a construction site mixed with old mortar and something metallic that's probably my own blood. My throat burns. My eyes water so hard I'm basically crying without the emotional component.

I come up anyway with a low stance, blade already rising, feet finding purchase on debris-covered stone.

Never stay down. The audience is watching.

Across from me, Groovy lands with considerably more grace than physics should allow for someone his size.

He hits the ground in a predator's crouch, weapons already deployed, eyes locked on me with focus so intense it's almost tangible. 

Sunlight pours through the jagged hole we carved through the wall, dust swirling in the beam like some divine spotlight decided to highlight our duel specifically.

For a second, neither of us moves.

We're both breathing hard now. Really hard.

My chest heaves—child-sized lungs trying to process air through dust and exhaustion while Blue Lightning still crackles faintly under my skin, demanding more fuel than this body was designed to provide.

Groovy's breathing comes in sharp, controlled bursts. Professional. Economical. But I can see the strain in his shoulders, the way his whiskers tremble faintly with each exhale.

We're both hurting.

Blood streaks my shoulder where that hatchet bit me earlier—no longer just a wound but a commitment, blood soaking through layers and dripping steadily onto stone. 

My kimono is ruined. The pretty pink fabric is torn, stained, and scattered with rock dust that turns it grey in places.

Groovy's muzzle is scraped raw on one side, fur darkened where he wiped blood away with the back of his paw. His bronze breastplate has a visible dent where I kicked it earlier. Scratches and impact marks scatter across his small body like trophies earned through sheer stubborn violence.

And we're both smiling.

His is a sharp, vicious thing—all teeth and fury and professional pride that refuses to admit exhaustion.

Mine is probably unhinged. I can feel it stretching too wide, too genuine, powered by something that's part joy, part insanity, and part pure commitment to the bit.

Because this is what real combat looks like.

Not clean, elegant, or even the sanitized version where heroes emerge unscathed, and villains fall dramatically without consequence.

But This.

Broken bodies and ruined architecture. Two people who should probably stop but won't because quitting isn't in their vocabulary.

How truly beautiful!

I spread my arms just a little, blade angled downward as if presenting the space. The gesture sends fresh pain lancing through my shoulder—but it’s worth it for the dramatic framing.

"Act Two begins, Groovy-san," I declare, voice rough from dust but still carrying. "Interior staging! Confined spaces! And tactical intimacy!"

The corridor stretches behind him. Several adjoining rooms branch off—barracks, storage, and narrow passages clearly meant for soldiers who are no longer brave enough to be here. 

Groovy spits blood to the side, wipes his mouth with the back of his paw, and snorts.

For half a second, something that might be amusement flickers beneath the fury. A crack in the professional rage that shows something almost like respect.

Or maybe a shared insanity.

Hard to tell the difference at this point.

"You're a fucking lunatic," he says, already pulling more weapons into play.

Chains shift with metallic whispers. The kusarigama weight swings in lazy circles, still blood-slicked from earlier impacts. 

Magic knuckles pulse brighter—mana gathering, building, preparing for whatever comes next. 

The blood-cursed hatchets hover with murderous intent, tracking me through supernatural senses that lock onto my injury.

Every weapon was positioned with professional precision. 

Every tool is ready.

Every advantage calculated.

This is a master craftsman preparing to work.

"And you talk way too goddamn much!" he adds, voice rising to a shout that echoes through the corridor.

"Hahaha!" I laugh, the sound bursting out despite the pain. "Guilty on both counts!"

I bounce once on my heels—testing my legs, checking my balance. 

Everything protests. 

Everything hurts.

But most importantly, everything still works.

"But look at you!" I continue, grin stretching impossibly wider. "Still standing! Still swinging! Still making this worth performing!"

My katana hums in my grip. Eager and ready.

We've both bled for this. Both broken through walls—literal and metaphorical. And both refused to quit when quitting would be smarter.

This demon lord—

No.

Groovy Gumlet.

Master of Curse Tools. 

The Sixth Divine General. 

A professional warrior who crafts his own weapons and maintains them with the kind of pride that only comes from genuine dedication to the craft.

Someone who understands that fighting isn't just about winning.

It's about how you fight, what you prove, and who you become in the moment when everything demands you surrender.

His response to my observation is profanity so creative, so magnificently vulgar, that it deserves to be transcribed and studied by future generations of linguists as an example of how to combine fourteen different swear words into a single grammatically questionable but emotionally perfect sentence.

Poets would weep with admiration at its creative vulgarity.

I'm genuinely impressed.

"That was beautiful," I tell him sincerely. "The rhythm! The imagery! The sheer commitment to the craft of cursing! You're an artist!"

He doesn't respond with words.

He responds with violence.

The observers are still there. Watching. Waiting.

“◆▼●■◆●▼■”

Their presence hums at the edge of my awareness—excited, anxious, and completely invested in what happens next.

My fellow leading actor is out there leading her constellation forward. Three hundred twenty voices moving as one.

And I'm here, in a ruined corridor inside a bastion, bleeding, grinning, and facing someone who refuses to make this easy.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

Oh, this performance is far from over!

The best scenes have yet to come!

My grip tightens on my blade. Blood drips steadily from my shoulder—tap, tap, tap—marking time in red drops on grey stone.

Groovy's eyes narrow. His stance shifts.

The corridor seems to hold its breath.

Dust swirls in the sunbeam like suspended time.

Neither of us moves, not yet.

We, the star actors, were building the tension—letting the moment breathe. That's good staging. That's some professional performance craft.

The audience leans forward.

The stage is set.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, that warm, exasperated voice whispers one more time:

"You never know when to quit."

No.

I don't.

And I'm not starting now.

"Shall we?" I ask cheerfully.

Groovy's answer is immediate, vicious, and involves three thrown hatchets, a chain snap, and language that would make his mother disown him.

I laugh, breathless, pained, and delighted. “Hahaha!”

Then I burst forward like the main actor I am!

ACT TWO BEGINS.

---

Subaru’s vision layered itself with something that had nothing to do with eyes.

His normal sight still showed the cracked earth, the dust hanging in the air, and the imperial formation waiting ahead. But over it all spread Cor Leonis’s evolved perception, quiet and constant, like a second heartbeat pulsing behind his ribs.

Three hundred and twenty pale white points moved across the battlefield in perfect synchronization. Each dot was a person—a presence, a life bound to him through threads he could feel humming softly, vibrating with shared intent and shared strain.

They didn’t jitter. They didn’t lag.

They flowed.

Subaru’s gaze was pulled forward, instinctively, to the brightest point in the pattern.

Spica.

She wasn’t just brighter than the others. She quite literally felt different. Where the others were steady lights, hers was warm, anchored, and almost gravitational. Threads converged on her naturally, not because they were forced to, but because everything else wanted to orbit there.

You really do look like a star, Subaru thought, a quiet awe settling into his chest. And not the fragile kind, either.

The constellation advanced as one, its shape shifting smoothly with the terrain, never breaking rhythm.

Ahead, Gudda Dialmo’s forces stood ready.

Two hundred, maybe a little more. Imperial soldiers in clean formation, shields locked, spears angled forward, officers barking short, sharp orders. They looked exactly like what they were—well-trained, disciplined veterans who had survived enough battles to trust their formations and their commanders.

Competent, while also being completely unprepared for what was to come.

Subaru felt it immediately. The difference wasn’t in numbers or weapons. It wasn’t even in morale.

It was in cohesion.

Gudda’s soldiers were individuals following commands, reacting to signals, and relying on drilled responses. 

The Spica Constellation wasn’t doing that. They weren’t waiting to be told when to move or how fast to advance. They already knew. Each step was shared, each breath unconsciously matched to the others.

One side was an army.

The other was a body.

This isn’t going to be a battle, Subaru realized, a knot of conflicting emotions tightening in his stomach. This is gonna be a demonstration of our power and who we are.

He watched Gudda’s front line brace, shields tightening, weapons lowering into kill angles. He could almost feel the tension rolling off them. Fear, focus, resolve, all tangled together.

A flicker of guilt pricked at him.

They’re just soldiers, he thought, jaw tightening. They’re doing what they were told. The same as us. Same as everyone else in this damn war.

For a heartbeat, he imagined being on the other side of this. Standing in that formation. Seeing three hundred people advance in eerie, perfect unison, bathed in a faint, unnatural glow.

Yeah. That would be terrifying.

But Subaru’s hesitation didn’t last.

His thoughts snapped back to the capital. To Rem, still captive somewhere. To everything that would be lost if they failed here.

We don’t have the luxury of backing down, Subaru told himself firmly. And we’re not going to butcher them either.

The rule grounded him immediately.

No killing.

Win clean. Win decisively. Win without turning into the kind of people the empire worshipped.

That was the line he and others had drawn. That was what differentiated him and the Spica Constellation from the other factions.

Subaru exhaled slowly, steadying himself as the distance closed and the constellation’s rhythm intensified around him.

The constellation connections settled into Subaru’s awareness like a familiar instrument resting in his hands.

He wasn’t plucking at the strings nor actively directing every note. The pattern moved on its own now, flowing exactly the way he’d designed it to. Still, he could feel every thread. 

Ready to adjust tension. 

Ready to redistribute strain. 

And most importantly, ready to step in if something went wrong.

Subaru's role wasn't to command every movement. 

That’s Spica’s job, Subaru reminded himself, eyes flicking to the small figure at the front beside him.

She's the leader. I'm just... the support structure holding everyone together.

Spica’s voice cut clearly through the rhythm of marching feet, sharp and confident, issuing short commands that carried without strain, and full of certainty.  

Almost a week ago, that certainty hadn’t existed. 

Almost a week ago, she would’ve second-guessed every word.

Now she didn’t.

She really did it, Subaru thought proudly, warmth blooming in his chest even as adrenaline sharpened his focus. She became the star I hoped she’d be.

The distance shrank fast.

Two hundred meters.

The imperial line shifted. Spears angled. Shields tightened.

One hundred fifty.

The constellation accelerated, yet not a single step fell out of sync. Three hundred and twenty bodies moving as one, breath and heartbeat aligning through the threads that hummed between them.

One hundred meters.

Fifty.

Subaru’s pulse spiked. The Authority-sight flared softly, threads pulsing with shared anticipation and resolve. It wasn’t fear moving through the constellation. It was readiness.

Here we go, Subaru thought, jaw setting.

---

Gudda Dialmo stood at the front of the imperial formation, boots planted firm in the churned earth.

The white scar marks crossing his chest were visible even through his armour, and old wounds earned the hard way. Each one was proof he’d survived something meant to kill him. He watched the approaching force with a commander’s cold, practiced eye.

Gladiators, he thought, watching the approaching force with professional assessment. Former slaves and gladiators who only fought beasts. Undisciplined and emotional. Numbers mean nothing without training.

We’ve held this bastion against worse, Gudda told himself calmly. Bandits, rebels, and desperate mobs with more courage than sense. Discipline had always broken them. Experience always wins.

They have numbers, but we have formation.

“Hold formation!” Gudda barked, voice carrying clean and sharp over the field. “Meet them head-on! Show these fools what ‘The People of Vollachia must be strong’ truly means!”

His soldiers responded perfectly, years of drilling evident in how seamlessly they adjusted positions, locked shields, and readied spears for devastating first contact.

This should be manageable, Gudda repeated internally, conviction solid.

Then the forces collided.

Metal rang against metal as spears thrust forward in perfect unison, meeting the oncoming gladiators with textbook precision. The impact was solid, decisive. Exactly how engagements were supposed to begin.

Gudda’s eyes tracked the front.

One of his soldiers drove a spear clean through a gladiator’s side. Perfect angle. Deep penetration. The kind of wound that dropped a man screaming within seconds.

The gladiator didn’t fall.

He grunted, staggered half a step, then twisted his body forward and slammed his weapon into the soldier’s shield with brutal force.

Gudda blinked.

Another spear punched through a different gladiator’s shoulder. The arm should’ve gone limp immediately.

The gladiator snarled, switched weapons to his other hand without breaking stride, and subdued the spearman in a single strike.

“What—” Gudda breathed, the word catching in his throat.

All along the line, the same impossible scene repeated.

Imperial strikes landed cleanly, lethally, but the gladiators kept coming.

They moved through injuries like they were minor inconveniences. Pain clearly registered, faces tightening for a heartbeat, but it didn’t slow their steps or break their rhythm.

“How are they still moving?!” Gudda shouted, his voice cracking as disbelief finally tore through his command tone.

Then Gudda saw the synchronization.

Gudda watched them shift and strike not as individuals, but as a single, impossible organism. 

Attacks came from angles his soldiers couldn’t read because the gladiators weren’t reacting as lone fighters. They were responding to shared awareness. 

A spear thrust missed one target, only for another blade to already be moving to cover the gap. 

Shields appeared where there shouldn’t have been time for them to raise. 

Openings closed before they could be exploited.

Every counter was perfectly timed with coordination that required no verbal communication or any visual signals, just... knowledge of where allies were and what they needed.

They fight like they share a mind, Gudda realized, a cold weight settling in his gut. What kind of magic lets people move like that?

His formation began to buckle. Discipline, drilled into his soldiers over the years, started to fracture under pressure from something that violated every rule they’d been trained by. Pride cracked like ice under relentless force.

T-this isn’t normal, Gudda thought, panic bleeding into his calculations. This shouldn’t be possible! What the hell are these freaks?!

---

Subaru felt the spike through the constellation threads like an electric jolt, sharp and urgent enough to yank his attention instantly.

Left flank, he registered, breath hitching.

A gladiator took a spear clean into the ribs. Deep and ugly. The kind of hit Subaru had seen end lives in seconds, such as his very own. Taking a brutal hit like that definitely caused some broken ribs at best, and a punctured lung at worst. Combat-ending, no question about that.

Instinct pulled on the thread before his conscious thoughts finished forming.

The injury that the gladiator just took simply dispersed.

In less than a heartbeat, the damage spread across the entire constellation network, Cor Leonis responding exactly as it was meant to. Three hundred and twenty connections flared at once, sharing the burden down to fractions too small to matter.

Subaru felt a faint sting along his own ribs, barely more than an itch. Huh, he thought distantly, that’s it? I’ve had paper cuts worse than that.

Across the field, the injured gladiator felt the same fleeting sensation. A tiny pulse of pain that registered and vanished almost immediately. He didn’t even slow down. His grip stayed strong. His next swing landed with full force.

Because for him, barely anything had happened, Subaru realized, a fierce satisfaction warming his chest despite the violence. That’s what it means to share everything.

Pain, burden, and even injuries.

None of us can be brought down alone because we're never alone.

Every member of the constellation felt that same faint sting, three hundred and twenty micro-pains spread so thin they were dismissed as quickly as they appeared. Too small to matter. Too diluted to stop anyone.

Gudda’s soldiers stared in mounting horror as the “wounded” gladiator continued fighting, breathing steadily, movements sharp. No stumble. No grimace. No sign that he’d just taken a blow that should have dropped him screaming.

---

“They don’t understand,” Subaru murmured under his breath, watching through his Cor Leonis-sight as confusion rippled through the imperial ranks. His voice carried a grim edge now, stripped of humour. “They just can’t.”

This is beyond their training, he thought. Beyond anything they’ve ever faced.

The threads pulsed softly, steady and unbroken.

This is what happens when you fight a constellation full of unyielding stars, Vollachia.

---

Spica’s voice rang out across the battlefield, clear and sharp enough to cut through the roar of steel and shouting men.

“Remember the rule, everyone! No killing!”

The air cracked like it had been struck with a hammer.

Leaper activated.

Reality buckled for a split second, and Spica vanished.

She reappeared twenty meters away in a burst of displaced air, boots skidding across churned dirt as she arrived beside a gladiator mid-swing. His sword was already falling, edge lined up with the exposed neck of an imperial soldier who had tripped backward, eyes wide, death a heartbeat away.

“Disable, don’t kill! Uau!” Spica shouted.

Her small hand snapped out and caught the gladiator’s wrist. The impact jolted both of them, but her grip held. She twisted sharply, redirecting the strike at the last possible instant.

The blade came down on the soldier’s weapon instead.

Metal screamed.

The imperial soldiers’ blade shattered under the blow, fragments spraying across the ground as the shock numbed the soldier’s arms and sent him sprawling. He was alive, shaken, but breathing.

The gladiator didn’t hesitate or argue. He adjusted instantly, flowing into the next movement as if it had always been the plan.

Good, Spica thought, already moving again. They’re listening.

Another crack of air.

She vanished and reappeared across the field, landing between two fighters just as one raised a mace high enough to cave in a helmet.

“Hey! Over here!” she called, voice sharp with authority.

The mace turned at the last second, crashing into the dirt instead of a skull. Spica kicked the wielder’s knee out from under him and shoved him aside, sending him rolling away, dazed but intact.

She kept moving.

Teleport, redirect, then stabilize.

Spica was literally everywhere all at once.

This is what leadership means, she thought, Priestess of a Thousand Visages feeding her a flood of angles and outcomes all at once. Not just winning, but winning without becoming monsters.

An imperial soldier charged her head-on, fear and desperation written across his face. His spear lunged for her chest. There was no time for her to fully dodge the attack.

Serpent of the Twin Swords activated instinctively.

Her body moved before she consciously decided anything. Vita’s technique flowed through her empty hands, footwork flawless, balance perfect, as if invisible blades extended from her palms.

Her strikes landed in rapid succession—wrist, elbow, then shoulder.

Three sharp impacts, precise and controlled.

The soldier cried out, “Aahh!” as his arm went slack—nerves stunned rather than shattered. The spear clattered uselessly to the ground. He stumbled back, clutching his limb, alive and breathing.

Spica was already past him.

 

Thank you, Vita, she thought, a quiet note of gratitude threading through her focus. Your skill doesn’t have to end lives anymore. It can protect them.

A sting flared in her palm.

She glanced down just long enough to see a shallow cut, blood welling where a blade had grazed her earlier. Small. Barely worth noticing.

Blood-Weeping Oni responded anyway.

The crimson droplets lifted from her skin, hardening midair as Advan’s stolen technique took hold. They crystallized into thin, gleaming daggers that hovered for a fraction of a second before snapping into her grasp.

Three imperial soldiers were closing in on a lone gladiator, boxing him in with shields raised. She wouldn’t reach them in time by running.

Spica hurled the blood-crystal daggers.

They struck with sharp, controlled precision, not flesh but fabric. Sleeves pinned cleanly to the stone wall behind them, cloth tearing but bodies untouched.

“Gah!” one soldier yelped, jerking uselessly against the restraint.

The gladiator didn’t waste the opening. He ducked out and ran, breathing hard but alive.

Seconds later, the blood-crystals began to dissolve, flaking away into harmless red dust. Temporary. Just long enough.

Using blood to protect instead of destroy, Spica thought, warmth blooming in her chest even as the battle raged on. Advan would be so confused. Probably angry too.

She smiled despite herself.

That was fine.

This was what his power meant now.

Movement suddenly flickered at the edge of Spica’s awareness.

A soldier was swinging from behind, blade arcing toward a gladiator’s exposed back. The angle was clean and lethal. If it landed, there would be no saving him afterward.

Spica’s breath caught, but her mouth was already moving.

“Stop!” She cried out sharply toward the attacker.

Stillness activated.

Notah’s technique surged outward, invisible and precise. Paralysis spread through the soldier’s body like ice racing across water. His muscles locked mid-swing, sword suspended in the air, frozen less than a handspan from flesh.

The gladiator reacted instantly.

He spun, struck the soldier’s wrist with the flat of his blade, and wrenched the weapon free. It hit the ground with a dull clatter.

The paralysis released exactly when it was meant to. The soldier staggered backward, gasping, limbs stiff but functional, alive and unbroken.

Just enough, Spica thought with tight focus. Always just enough. Never too much.

Her awareness flowed onward without pause.

Three soldiers ahead were coordinating tightly, shields overlapping as they pushed toward the constellation’s left flank. Their timing was good. Too good. If they broke through there, people would get hurt.

She shifted her weight, preparing to move when—

Danger flared.

Priestess of a Thousand Visages screamed a warning as a fourth presence surged up from her blind spot. The soldier had raised his weapon high, eyes locked on her back, convinced she was distracted.

Too far away, Subaru's distant alarm rippled through constellation threads—he'd sensed the threat but couldn't react in time.

Before Spica could respond to the attacker, a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

“El Shamak!”

Beatrice stood atop a pile of shattered rubble twenty meters away, small frame braced, drill curls bouncing as her hands glowed with dense purple-black light.

The spell detonated into being.

Absolute darkness bloomed between Spica and the attacker, a curtain of Yin magic so complete it devoured distance and direction alike. The soldier stumbled into it with a startled shout.

“Wha—hey! I can’t see!”

He swung wildly at nothing, feet scraping against the ground as he lost all sense of space.

Spica whirled at the sound, recognizing the spell instantly. A bright, relieved smile flashed across her face even as she moved.

Perfect timing, Bea-chan!

She locked onto the disoriented soldier’s position and triggered Leaper.

The air cracked.

Spica reappeared right beside him in a burst of displaced pressure that made him flinch, even though he still couldn’t see her.

A blood-crystal dagger formed from the cut on her palm, hardening in an instant.

She struck once—clean and full of control.

The blade clipped his forearm just enough to shock the muscles. His fingers spasmed and opened. The weapon fell harmlessly to the ground.

Spica stepped back as the crystal dissolved, already turning away.

"Thanks, Bea-chan! Uau~" she called out, genuine gratitude in her voice.

“Betty told Spica to stop being reckless, in fact!” Beatrice snapped back, voice sharp with familiar tsundere irritation. “Betty cannot protect Spica if Spica insists on ignoring her surroundings, I suppose!”

Despite the scolding, they exchanged synchronized smiles—understanding passing between them wordlessly, sisters protecting each other in a way that mattered most.

We’re family, Spica thought as she turned back toward the fight, warmth steadying her chest. Really, truly family.

---

Subaru felt it before he consciously thought about it.

The constellation fed him information the way nerves fed pain or warmth, subtle and constant. Fatigue registered across the network like temperature variations on a living map, each person a faint sensation layered over the next.

There. Left-center flank again.

One gladiator was tiring faster than the rest. An older man, shoulders tense, breath coming a little too sharp between swings. His stance dipped half a second slower each exchange, knees complaining in a way Subaru could practically feel through the thread.

Yeah… that tracks, Subaru thought, a flicker of concern tightening his chest. Guy’s tough, but the time comes for everyone.

Before Subaru could even consider intervening, the system adjusted on its own.

The man’s exhaustion didn’t deepen. It spread.

The strain diffused outward through the constellation in a blink, thinned and diluted as it flowed into three hundred nineteen other bodies. 

What should have been a crushing weight became a barely noticeable drop in stamina, like losing a single grain of sand from a mountain.

No one stumbled, and no one slowed.

The older gladiator straightened, breath evening out as his muscles stopped screaming. He didn’t even realize he’d been saved.

Subaru exhaled, something like awe creeping in despite himself.

There it is, he thought, almost reverent. That’s the real trick.

Not strength, speed, or even some flashy power.

But endurance. Unlimited, unfair endurance.

He watched the battlefield through his normal sight now, and the difference was impossible to miss.

Gudda’s soldiers were good, trained and disciplined. They rotated positions, adjusted grips, and kept formation as long as humanly possible. 

But minutes of continuous combat began to take their toll. Shoulders sagged. Breathing grew harsh and audible. Attacks lost a fraction of their snap as muscles flooded with burn and fatigue.

Biology was collecting its due.

And The Spica constellation didn’t slow even one bit

Gladiators fought on with a steady rhythm, movements still sharp, timing still perfect. 

No heavy breaths. 

No shaking arms. 

No signs of cumulative wear. 

They hit just as hard, just as cleanly, as they had at the start of this clash.

From the front, Gudda saw it too.

Subaru could read the disbelief even at a distance. The way Gudda’s head turned, scanning for signs of weakness that weren’t there. The way his jaw tightened as he watched his men tire against opponents who simply… didn’t.

They don’t get tired, Subaru imagined him thinking, horror bleeding through professional disbelief. That’s not possible. Soldiers can’t do that.

Subaru swallowed, guilt flickering briefly before being buried under resolve.

This is what it means to fight as one, he thought, threads humming with shared will. Three hundred twenty people sharing everything. Pain, fatigue and fear.

His eyes flicked back to Spica at the center of it all, glowing steady and bright in his Cor Leonis-sight, guiding the flow without ever seeing it.

None of us falls alone, Subaru thought firmly. And that makes all the difference.

---

The coordination advantage only grew sharper as the battle dragged on.

Subaru watched it unfold through both his eyes and the constellation’s shared awareness, a strange double vision that still made his stomach flutter if he thought about it too hard.

One gladiator swung his weapon at an imperial soldier. It was a clean strike, nothing fancy, the kind of attack any trained fighter could throw.

Before the blade even connected, another gladiator stepped into place with perfect placement and timing.

The follow-up came exactly where the first strike would force an opening, sliding in as naturally as if they had rehearsed it a thousand times. There had been no glance exchanged, no shouted cue, no raised hand.

They just know, Subaru observed with awe at his own Authority's evolution. Those connected to Cor Leonis can feel each other's intentions through the shared connection.

Gudda’s soldiers adapted fast. They were professionals, after all. Commands barked out. Units shifted. Flanking maneuvers began, spears angling in to isolate individual targets.

It should have worked.

But it just didn’t.

Every Constellation member felt pressure the moment it formed, even if it wasn’t aimed at them personally. Threats approaching from behind registered as faint pulls on the threads, directional urgency humming through the shared awareness.

A gladiator never saw the spear coming from his blind spot.

Three others did.

Steel met steel before the spear reached its mark, one gladiator knocking the shaft aside while another slammed a shield into the attacker’s ribs and a third wrenched the weapon free with a hooked blade.

The imperial soldier staggered back, eyes wide.

He had just been flanking someone, and now he was suddenly surrounded.

Subaru felt a tight, almost hysterical laugh bubble up in his chest. They’re trying to surround individuals, he thought incredulously. You can’t surround something that’s everywhere at once.

From Gudda’s perspective, the battlefield must have felt alive in the worst possible way. Attacks came from angles his soldiers swore had been clear a heartbeat earlier. Openings vanished before they could be exploited. Every attempt to press an advantage was met by pressure from a direction no one had been watching.

The Spica Constellation was seeing through three hundred twenty sets of eyes, Subaru realized, the full weight of it finally clicking. Every angle. Every blind spot. Every mistake. There’s nowhere to hide.

And it wasn’t just movement.

The emotions flowed too.

Not thoughts. Subaru didn’t hear words or feel memories, but feelings did passed freely, carried along the same threads as stamina and pain.

A flicker of panic sparked from one gladiator as three enemies closed in at once. Subaru felt it like a brief chill across his spine.

Before the fear could deepen, it was drowned.

Courage surged in from every direction, not forced, not deliberate. It was just there. Three hundred nineteen people standing with him, believing he could hold the line, believing they would reach him in time.

The panic dissolved almost instantly.

The gladiator straightened, jaw setting as confidence replaced fear, his movements sharpening instead of faltering.

Yeah, Subaru thought, warmth spreading through his chest despite the violence. That’s it. That’s the real opponents you’re fighting.

Confidence fed confidence. Resolve reinforced resolve. No fear was allowed to fester long enough to matter.

Gudda’s forces weren’t just fighting opponents who didn’t tire.

They were fighting an army that refused collectively to break.

---

The emotional feedback loop amplified everything.

Subaru felt it as a constant, low hum beneath his awareness, like standing inside a living heartbeat that never quite stopped. It wasn’t something such as telepathy. He wasn’t hearing voices or catching fragments of thought. No words crossed the threads at all.

But emotions moved freely.

Determination flowed through the constellation the way water rushed through connected channels. 

One person’s resolve strengthened the next without anyone meaning to push it outward. 

Courage spread naturally, quietly, the moment someone showed it. Fear didn’t linger long enough to settle because it never belonged to just one person.

A sudden spike flared through the threads.

One gladiator was cornered by multiple imperial soldiers—panic flashing hot and sharp for a single breath as blades closed in.

Subaru felt it clearly. The tightness in the chest. The instinctive urge to recoil.

Then the constellation answered.

Three hundred nineteen other presences pressed back all at once. Confidence surged through the connection, not loud or overwhelming, just steady and certain. A collective assurance that he wasn’t alone. That help was already moving. That this moment wouldn’t break him.

The panic evaporated before it could deepen.

The gladiator’s stance shifted. Shoulders squared. Breath steadied. His next movement was decisive instead of desperate, blade snapping out to parry as another ally stepped into range without needing to be called.

Yeah, Subaru thought quietly, warmth spreading through his chest. That’s it. That’s how this works.

Confidence fed confidence, looping endlessly through the constellation. No fear had time to grow roots.

A ripple of satisfaction suddenly washed across the threads.

One gladiator scored a perfect disarm, twisting an enemy’s weapon free and sending it skidding across the dirt. The moment landed cleanly, and the feeling of success spread outward like rings in water.

Subaru felt his own grip tighten, his focus sharpen. All around the battlefield, movements became just a little faster, strikes a little cleaner, timing a fraction more precise.

They all fought better together.

Across the field, the enemy changed.

Imperial soldiers hesitated mid-swing. Formations wavered as confusion crept in. Discipline gave way to uncertainty, then to fear. Subaru could see it in the way their feet shifted, in the way their eyes darted, in how desperation replaced training when they realized their usual rules no longer applied.

The Spica Constellation responded instinctively.

They pressed the advantage, but without cruelty. Overwhelming their opponents without revelling in it. Weapons were knocked aside, limbs disabled, formations broken, but lives were spared whenever possible.

We know they’re scared, Subaru thought, watching the imperial line buckle under pressure that never relented. We don’t need to punish that. We just need… to end this.

The threads thrummed with shared agreement.

That’s the difference, he added silently, resolve settling deep in his chest. We win without becoming monsters.

---

Arakiya moved through the battlefield with the ease of long habit, her stride smooth and economical even as chaos swirled around her. Fire spirits flickered around her fingertips like impatient sparks. Wind spirits whispered warnings into her ears. Earth spirits thrummed beneath her boots, eager and ready.

They were loud today.

They screamed to be consumed, to be unleashed all at once. They begged her to do what she had always done best.

I could end this battle in seconds, she thought, dodging a spear thrust with minimal movement, countering with precisely controlled fire blast that knocked the soldier backward without burning flesh. With full power. Consume all the micro-spirits at once, and turn everything to ash and dust.

The fire recoiled, angry. It wanted to burn deeper.

The wind tugged at her, urging sharper edges, urging her to peel flesh from bone. 

The earth hummed with the promise of collapse, of crushing weight and finality. 

All of them remembered who she used to be.

Arakiya exhaled slowly, grounding herself as another soldier scrambled away from her, terror plain on his face.

But these people aren't my enemies, she reminded herself, eyes narrowing as she tracked his retreat. Not really. They're following orders, like I once did for the empire.

Another flick of her wrist. Fire bloomed again, hotter this time but still measured. The heat washed over the advancing line, forcing them to recoil. Cloth charred. Leather blackened. No screams of burning flesh followed.

Good.

“Go,” she muttered under her breath, voice low and sharp. “Run before I change my mind. I’m not a very patient woman, you know.”

“HEEEEEE! ”The soldier didn’t need to be told twice.

Precision is harder than pure destruction, she admitted as she pivoted, already moving toward the next threat. And geez, it’s annoying. But Spica would be proud, right?

A sword came down toward her shoulder. She snapped her fingers, and the wind obeyed, compressing into a brutal sideways gust. The blade was ripped clean from the man’s grip and sent spinning twenty feet away, embedding itself in the dirt.

The soldier stared at his empty hands, stunned. “W-what the fuc—”

“Oh, it seems your hands are still attached,” Arakiya said dryly as she passed him. “You’re welcome.”

“—Thank you….?”

She didn’t look back.

The ground surged beneath another cluster of soldiers, earth rising like living stone. It wrapped around their ankles and calves, locking them in place without crushing, without breaking. They shouted in surprise, stumbling but unharmed as gladiators rushed past them toward other targets.

Every strike of mine is calculated, she thought, irritation and focus blending together. No shortcuts. No indulgence. This takes more effort than levelling the battlefield ever did.

The contrast struck her forcefully. She remembered fighting for the empire without question, destroying whatever she was pointed at—simply because someone with authority ordered it. 

Villages were destroyed because someone above her rank said they were harbouring rebels. People were killed because they opposed the emperor. 

The way she never questioned it. 

The way she never hesitated. 

Her power was unleashed without restraint because restraint had never been required of her.

She had been efficient at her job, too. But in the grand scheme of things, Arakiya was just… empty. She had no moral code or ethics. She was simply a tool to be used by those with authority.

But now I'm fighting against the very empire that used to control me, she thought, watching Spica teleport past her toward another cluster of enemies. I’m now filled with constant questions. Am I doing the right thing? Is mercy weakness?

But seeing Spica's absolute determination to avoid killing—a small girl who carried guilt for what Louis Arneb had done, but choosing mercy anyway despite how much easier brutality would be—Arakiya felt something tighten in her chest.

She carries guilt heavier than any of us, Arakiya realized as she blasted two soldiers away from a cornered gladiator, heat blooming just enough to clear space. She knows exactly what monstrosity looks like.

And yet, Spica chose mercy. Again, and again.

Not because it was easy. Because it definitely wasn’t.

Arakiya snorted quietly to herself, ducking under another swing and snapping wind around a soldier’s legs to trip him harmlessly onto his back.

“Damn it,” she muttered, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. “If Spica can manage it, I don’t get an excuse.”

The spirits stirred, restless but listening.

Am I afraid mercy makes me weak? she asked herself as she moved, as she fought, as she chose restraint every single time. Or am I just afraid of finding out who I am without the empire telling me what to destroy or do?

The answer came easily.

“No,” Arakiya said aloud, voice steady as she stepped forward, power coiling obediently at her command. “I’m done pretending I don’t know better.”

She launched herself back into the fight, not as the Spirit-Eater who erased battlefields, but as a warrior who chose where her strength ended.

And for the second time, that choice felt right.

---

Gustav’s four arms moved as one, muscle memory and discipline aligning perfectly as a spear thrust flashed toward Spica’s exposed side. Bronze bracers met steel with a sharp clang, the force of the impact spreading instantly through the constellation.

What should have rattled bone turned into nothing more than a faint pressure across three hundred and twenty bodies. Gustav himself felt it as little more than a firm tap against his arm.

He didn’t look shaken. He didn’t even look surprised.

Gustav dipped his head once toward Spica, a brief, solemn nod that carried trust, reassurance, and absolute loyalty all at once. Then he stepped back into formation without missing a beat, four arms already repositioning to guard the next opening.

Protection wasn’t something he announced. It was something he did.

Nearby, Hiain planted his feet and raised his shield just as a volley of arrows screamed through the air. Shafts slammed into the shield face with brutal force, rattling metal and wood, but none slipped through.

“Stay behind me! I’ve got you guys!” Hiain shouted, voice rough but steady as stone.

Younger gladiators huddled instinctively behind his towering frame, wide-eyed but unharmed. Arrow after arrow struck, yet Hiain’s arms never wavered. 

Fatigue that should have burned his shoulders spread harmlessly across the constellation instead, diluted until it barely registered. His stance remained solid, shield unwavering, breath even.

Weitz crashed into the front line like a living battering ram. His strikes were simple, brutal, and controlled. Blades shattered under the force of his swings, weapons snapping cleanly in half, steel flying from numb fingers.

No bones broken. No bodies fell.

We’re stars, Weitz thought as he drove another soldier backward, remembering Spica’s voice echoing across the island. Stars don’t extinguish others. They light the way through darkness.

Each strike was measured, controlled, and merciful despite the force behind them.

Unit Compass flowed through the chaos in their own rhythm. Mina, Oz, Tarek, and Grado moved in perfect formation, their positions shifting seamlessly as if they shared a single spine. One disarmed, the next blocked, the third struck pressure points or swept legs. No wasted motion. No cruelty.

“Yield!” Mina called sharply as Oz knocked a spear aside.

“We don’t want to hurt you!” Grado added, voice firm and unyielding.

They moved like a single organism within the larger constellation, a smaller pattern nested inside a greater one, proof that unity didn’t dilute individuality. It refined it.

Gudda Dialmo watched it all unravel.

His formation collapsed not in a rout of blood and screams, but in something far worse. Discipline failed. Tactics failed. Everything he had built his career on simply… stopped working.

His soldiers weren’t being butchered. They were being dismantled.

Weapons were stripped away. Limbs were numbed. Men were restrained, tripped, surrounded, and forced to the ground without fatal wounds. Mercy delivered with terrifying efficiency.

They could easily kill us, Gudda realized, dread pooling cold in his gut. And yet they’re choosing not to.

That understanding cracked his pride deeper than any blade ever could.

His gaze snapped to the side, catching sight of Arakiya moving through the fray, elements bending to her will as easily as breath. Fire, wind, and earth. Controlled and precise. On their side.

“The Second Divine General…” he whispered hoarsely. “She’s with them?”

His eyes darted again.

A small blonde girl vanished in a crack of displaced air, reappearing halfway across the battlefield, intercepting a killing blow before it could land. Too fast. Too precise.

Just who the hell is she?! Panic clawed up his spine. What kind of commander fights like that?!

Another flash of purple-black magic erupted nearby as a tiny girl with drill-shaped hair unleashed Yin spells that swallowed space itself, soldiers stumbling blind and disarmed in seconds.

“Oh great, they also got a Great Spirit?” Gudda breathed, disbelief choking his voice. “How did these rebels get a Great Spirit?”

Training screamed at him to hold the line. Pride demanded resistance.

Reality crushed both.

“Hold the line!” Gudda shouted, desperation tearing through his command. “Reform ranks! Reform—”

But not a single soul moved.

His soldiers looked at him with wide eyes, waiting for an answer he didn’t have. Waiting for a salvation that didn’t exist.

There’s nothing left to give, he realized, shoulders sagging under the weight of it. No tactic counters this. No strategy. No discipline.

"Reinforcements!" The word tore from his throat pathetically, a final desperate cry of a commander watching his defeat unfold. "We need reinforcements!"

But even as he said it, he knew the truth.

None were coming.

Suddenly, the battlefield went still around him.

The Spica Constellation members closed in, weapons raised but unmoving, a silent ring of steel and resolve. At the front stood the small blonde girl, blue eyes steady, expression firm but gentle.

“Yield,” Spica said, her voice carrying clearly through the hush. “You don’t have to die today. Uau.”

Gudda’s sword slipped from his grasp, clattering against blood-stained stone. The sound echoed louder than any scream.

His shoulders slumped, decades of command draining out of him in a single breath.

“I…” His voice trembled, then steadied as he faced the truth. “I yield.”

---

Subaru felt it through Cor Leonis before he fully processed it with his eyes. A sharp tug on the threads, urgency spiking like a pulled wire.

Five imperial soldiers were pressing the right flank hard, their movements tight and coordinated. Too coordinated. Three gladiators were holding, but barely. The timing was off by a fraction, just enough that if it slipped further, the line would tear.

The right flank needs help. Now, Subaru thought, a jolt of cold focus cutting through the noise in his head.

He didn’t shout or point.

His concern surged through the constellation threads instead, a clean pulse of intent flowing straight to Spica.

Fifty meters away, Spica turned her head mid-motion. Her eyes found his instantly across the chaos, blue and sharp, already understanding what he’d seen. She gave the smallest nod, almost imperceptible to anyone else.

Go. I've got the center.

The answer wasn’t spoken. It didn’t need to be.

Air cracked violently as Leaper activated. Reality screamed as Spica vanished from where she stood and reappeared directly inside the enemy cluster, space folding around her small frame as if it had simply given up arguing.

“Stillness,” she said calmly. 

Notah’s technique surged outward.

Three soldiers froze at once, bodies locking mid-swing, muscles seizing as paralysis wrapped around them like sudden ice. One man’s sword hung suspended inches from a gladiator’s neck, his face twisted in confusion and fear.

The remaining two barely had time to react.

“Now!” Spica called, voice sharp and ringing. “Disable them! Uau!”

The opening she’d created snapped shut immediately as gladiators surged in, momentum flipping in an instant. Weapons were knocked aside, legs were swept out, and bodies were pinned to the ground with practiced precision. What had been a dangerous push collapsed into controlled restraint within seconds.

Subaru felt the shift like a released breath.

Relief flooded the threads, washing across the constellation in a warm, grounding wave. The crisis was over. Everyone felt it at once, tension easing without anyone needing to ask why.

His gaze lifted again.

Spica looked back at him, a quick grin flashing across her face before she was already moving again, teleporting away to the next pressure point.

We’re really doing this, Spica thought as she landed, heart pounding but steady. Not simply following or reacting, but fighting together.

Subaru felt it too, a quiet satisfaction settling into his chest.

I guide the flow. She leads the fight, he thought, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. Yeah. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

---

The last organized resistance collapsed like a house of cards in strong wind.

Imperial soldiers began throwing down their weapons, hands raised high as panic finally overrode discipline. Others broke and ran, boots pounding desperate paths away from a battle they could no longer understand, let alone win.

No one chased them down.

No one struck backs or cut down fleeing men.

Gudda Dialmo stood at the center of it all, surrounded, breathing hard. Blood-crystal restraints wrapped around his wrists and ankles, shimmering faintly as they held firm. His pride lay in ruins, but he was alive. Defeated without being destroyed.

We did it, the realization rippled through the constellation, satisfaction spreading without words. We won without becoming what we hate.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then three hundred and twenty voices exploded at once.

Laughter, cheers, and shouts crashed together into a single thunderous roar that rolled across the captured ground. Relief burst free, unrestrained and genuine.

“We fucking did it!” someone yelled, voice cracking with disbelief.

“We actually did it!” another screamed out in joy.

Hiain, Idra, and Weitz climbed together to the highest point of the battlefield, boots scraping stone as they hauled themselves up. The yellow star flag was clutched tightly between them, fabric stained with dust and sweat.

They raised it in perfect unison.

The pole struck stone with a solid, ringing impact, planted deep and unmoving. Wind caught the flag immediately, snapping it outward as the yellow star blazed in the afternoon sun, bright enough to be seen from miles away.

Subaru stared up at it, chest tight, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding finally escaping him.

Spica stood nearby, hands on her knees for just a moment as she caught her breath, then straightened and laughed softly.

“Uau… we really arrived, didn’t we?”

Above them, the banner streamed proudly.

A message to the battlefield, to the empire, to anyone watching.

That the Spica Constellation had arrived.

---

Subaru stood still for a moment longer than necessary, eyes lingering on the restrained imperial soldiers scattered across the captured ground. His hands were clenched at his sides, fingers digging into his palms as conflicting emotions churned in his chest.

They never stood a chance, he admitted to himself, a faint, uncomfortable twist settling in his stomach. Supernatural coordination versus normal training. The outcome was decided before the first attack hit.

The guilt flickered, brief but real.

Then it was pushed aside by something stronger.

But we didn’t cross that line, Subaru thought firmly, jaw tightening as he exhaled. We won without needless killing. That’s what actually matters.

Relief followed, heavy and overwhelming, washing through him until his shoulders finally loosened. 

No corpses littered the field. 

No dying screams echoed behind him. 

No blood pooling where it never needed to be.

No one died, he thought, the realization grounding him. Not ours. Not theirs.

Subaru knew the pain of dying all too well and didn’t wish to inflict it on others if possible. 

His gaze softened as he looked at the prisoners more closely. Exhausted men sitting in the dirt, wrists bound, armour dented, eyes hollow with fear but still very much alive.

They’ll go home, he realized. They’ll see their families again. Hug their kids. Complain about bad food and sore muscles instead of… never coming back.

That thought settled something deep in his chest.

This is what war should be, Subaru thought with quiet conviction. Victory without atrocity. Winning without turning into what we’re fighting against.

A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at his lips.

I’d like to think Rem would be proud of this, he thought softly. And Emilia-tan definitely would be. She’d probably cry a little. Then hug everyone. Then scold me for overthinking things.

His attention shifted as Spica stepped up onto the highest part of the captured position. 

Despite her small frame, the way she stood made every eye turn toward her without effort. Dust clung to her boots, a smear of dried blood marked one sleeve, and her blue eyes were bright with unfiltered joy.

“We did it!” Spica called out, voice ringing clear across the field. “Together! Uau!”

The response was immediate and thunderous. Weapons lifted skyward. Cheers exploded from three hundred and twenty throats, the sound rolling outward like a living thing.

“No one died today!” Spica continued, hands clenched into fists at her sides as she leaned forward, emotion spilling freely into her words. “Not them, not us! That’s what stars do! We shine without burning others! Uau!”

The roar that followed was even louder, joy and relief and pride crashing together until the very air seemed to vibrate with it. Subaru felt it ripple through the constellation threads, shared happiness blooming everywhere at once.

For a moment, he just stood there and let it wash over him.

Then Spica’s expression sharpened, urgency cutting cleanly through the celebration.

“Ceci’s still fighting!” she called. “We need to catch up! Uau!”

The response was instant.

The Constellation moved as one, celebration snapping into focus without hesitation. Formation reassembled smoothly, weapons lowered but ready, feet already turning toward the bastion interior where the sounds of battle still echoed faintly. Cecilus’s unmistakably theatrical voice carried even this far, loud and animated enough to be impossible to miss.

Subaru blinked in surprise as he realized something else.

Geez, no one’s tired, he noted, a quiet amazement threading through his thoughts. Not even after all that?

The yellow star flag was lifted once more, streaming behind them as they began to move. Sunlight caught the fabric just right, making the symbol glow like something more than cloth, like a promise given shape.

---

Three hundred and twenty people marched forward as one.

Constellation Threading remained active, invisible threads binding them together. Subaru could feel it humming steadily, not straining or wavering. Everyone could feel the unity even if they couldn’t see it.

He fell into step beside Spica at the front without thinking.

The two were partners, equals. 

Beatrice walked between them, chin held high, eyes sharp despite the way her lips stubbornly refused to curve into anything that resembled a smile. Pride radiated from her anyway.

Arakiya followed close behind, shoulders squared, expression focused, choosing restraint over destruction with every measured step. 

Gustav and the others led their sections with calm efficiency, voices steady, movements precise. 

Unit Compass stayed tight and synchronized, already adapting to the terrain ahead.

Former slaves, gladiators, and warriors were now stars.

We’re really doing this, Subaru thought as the bastion interior loomed closer. Fighting a war without losing ourselves. Winning without losing our humanity.

A small, almost incredulous laugh escaped him under his breath.

Yeah, he thought. This is what it means to be stars.

The Constellation marched on.

And the world watched them shine.

 

To be Continued.

Notes:

This is the first chapter that contains 1st person prose, I think. What did you guys think about how I wrote Ceci's POV section?

Let me know your thoughts or any glaring issues with this chapter.