[Aethel]
[The Grand Colosseum]
The crowd—millions upon millions—were paralyzed.
The enormous Zephyra Illusora screens, suspended across the vastness of the Colosseum displayed the image that had shattered reality itself.
Mikoto's unveiled face.
It was too perfect.
Too ethereal.
Too divine.
The world broke.
A wave of pandemonium, hysteria and unrestrained chaos erupted all at once, crashing into the Colosseum like a tidal wave.
People screamed.
"THAT'S A SPAWN OF OCTAVIA!"
"IMPOSSIBLE!"
"IT CAN'T BE! IT CAN'T BE! IT CAN'T BE!"
"Another spawn of the Goddess has been born!"
"This is a divine omen! A miracle! A sign from the heavens themselves!"
"A SECOND SPAWN OF OCTAVIA… HERE?! IN THIS ERA?! IT'S NOT POSSIBLE!"
"WAIT! HOLD ON! THAT CAN'T BE RIGHT! THAT—THAT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE!"
It was known, through scripture, through history, through prophecy, that in every era, only one spawn of Octavia could exist.
Only one.
And—they had always been female.
Always.
Always.
Always.
So then—
What was this?
The debate began instantly. A council of scholars, sorcerers, and clerics, seated in an elevated chamber high above the Colosseum, were collapsing into full-fledged hysteria.
A high-ranking sorceress, her golden robes signifying her as one of the Galadriel's most accomplished, clutched the edges of her chair, her fingers digging into the wood.
"T-There must be some mistake!" she gasped, her voice shrill with absolute disbelief.
Another sorcerer, an elderly man, his eyes wide and bloodshot, slammed his fist down onto the table.
"A male spawn of Octavia has NEVER existed! IT HAS NEVER HAPPENED IN RECORDED HISTORY!"
A younger sorceress, her hands shaking, frantically flipped through a tome, scanning through centuries' worth of records and accounts.
"The spawns of Octavia have always been chosen by fate! Their births foretold in the stars! Each one has been a beacon of the Goddess's will, a reflection of her image!"
"AND THEY HAVE ALL BEEN WOMEN!"
The one in golden robes gasped sharply, her face losing color.
"Wait—wait—if that's true, then… then…"
A silence rippled through the chamber as the question formed—
"Is Mikoto Yukio… actually a girl?"
It was absurd.
It was insane.
And yet—how else could they explain this?!
More voices joined in, overlapping, shouting and screaming.
"It HAS to be that! There's no other answer! The Goddess's spawns have always been female—ALWAYS!"
"Then what does that make HIM?! WHAT IS HE?!"
"IS HE EVEN A HE?!"
"It must be transmogrification magic," one sorceress said, her voice shaking with uncertainty. "There's no other way! He's altered his face—he's reshaped himself to resemble Octavia!"
Another sorcerer, an elderly man, snorted sharply.
"Are you a fool?" he snapped, his voice filled with condescension. "Transmogrification magic is too delicate! Too precise! No one—no one—could maintain such a transformation after experiencing the level of raw devastation he just endured!"
He gestured violently toward the screen, where Mikoto's unscathed yet eerily flawless face remained displayed.
"Magic that alters the body is the first thing to collapse under extreme mana pressure. It would have shattered the instant that explosion of light consumed him. Yet his face remains exactly the same!"
The sorceress opened her mouth to argue but faltered.
Because he was right.
Mikoto had been engulfed in an attack of impossible magnitude, drowned in waves of reality-breaking power, his body subjected to sheer obliteration.
No disguise. No alteration. No magic could have survived that.
This was his true form.
That realization sent a deep, cold shudder through the scholars and sorcerers.
The masses below were no better.
Commoners were looking on in shock, falling over themselves, clutching their heads in disbelief. Nobles were gripping the edges of their luxurious seats, pale-faced, utterly speechless.
Sorcerers were casting analysis spells over and over, each result confirming the impossible truth—that was no illusion. That was real.
A different kind of chaos began.
For many in the crowd, the disbelief, the fear, the confusion—
It melted away.
And in its place—
Desire.
Women clutched their chests, their breathing ragged, their faces flushed deep crimson. Demi-human girls, their tails swishing violently, their ears twitching uncontrollably, were biting their lips, unable to suppress their carnal instincts. Even some of the men were staring in silent, frozen fascination, their faces betraying awe, attraction, and something dangerously close to reverence.
The sight of Mikoto's cold, perfect expression, the way his rosy lips curled into the barest of smiles, the way his red eyes gleamed with a glow—
It was too much.
He looked like something beyond this world, like something that should not exist, like something they would fall to their knees for, beg for, worship. One noblewoman, unable to control herself, let out a breathless whisper.
"…He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
A priestess, standing among her congregation, stared in absolute uncontainable desire.
"…A spawn of Octavia should not look like that."
Her hands shook violently.
"…And yet, I want to bow before him."
Question lingered in the minds of many, especially the three of them seated on an elevated balcony.
"What is the meaning of this? A second spawn of Octavia?" Even the great emperor of Vel'ryr seemed baffled.
"Hm, it does seem so." The voice belonged to Percival, the only indication of surprise was a single, barely perceptible raised brow.
His steel-gray eyes flicked toward King Thordan, who, in stark contrast, was visibly tense, his expression taut with disbelief and unease. It was a rare sight—to see a ruler of his caliber so visibly shaken.
And it was odd.
Odd that Mikoto Yukio, a supposed citizen of Galadriel, bore the divine essence of Octavia without his knowledge.
Aerious let out a low chuckle, his fingers still idly tapping against the gilded surface of his chair.
"You admonish Vel'ryr for making use of the Ancestors, yet here you have a second spawn of Octavia in your mitts?" His words were sharp.
Percival spoke instead, "You're quite quick to assume Mikoto Yukio is, in fact, a spawn of Octavia. He could be altering his appearance."
Aerious scoffed. "Oh, please," he waved a hand dismissively. "I might not be able to make use of it, but my knowledge of magical arts is nothing to scoff at." His gaze sharpened as he leaned forward ever so slightly. "Transformation spells? Illusions? Delicate and flawed. He wouldn't be able to maintain such deception under these circumstances. Not while facing the power of an Inheritor. No, Mikoto Yukio's form is genuine."
His voice grew colder. "I haven't the faintest clue why there is a second spawn of Octavia… but I suppose it makes sense. After all, she singled him out."
The tension deepened.
A silent, weight settled upon the chamber as Aerious's gaze slid toward King Thordan. A king who, for the first time in years, looked truly lost.
"But you know what this means, Archbishop?" Aerious's gaze flicked back to Percival.
Percival exhaled softly, his fingers tightening ever so slightly as he tilted his head. "Of course," he murmured, his tone betraying nothing. "Regardless of the additional Inheritors of Verdantis or your trump card—the general—Galadriel surpasses all nations in military might as of this moment."
"Mikoto Yukio was but fifteen winters old. Perhaps sixteen now. Despite his young age, his strength is undeniable." A pause. "And he will only grow stronger."
Aerious leaned back, his smirk widening. "Exactly. So, tell me, what has the king to say?"
Thordan's fingers tensed tightly around the ornate arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. His voice was rough, strained, as he finally spoke. "I… I had no knowledge of this." A flicker of frustration, of self-doubt, danced in his eyes. He was a ruler—one who should know everything within his kingdom—yet this revelation had blindsided him.
Aerious's gaze narrowed, scrutinizing, clearly not convinced.
But it was Percival who spoke next. "It would not be surprising if even you were not privy to Mikoto Yukio's true nature," the Archbishop stated smoothly. "He is not native to Galadriel, after all. As a second spawn of Octavia, Mikoto Yukio no doubt knows his existence would stir no small amount of attention."
Aerious, watching, tilted his head ever so slightly. "That doesn't change the fact that Galadriel now has a second spawn of Octavia." His smirk returned. "One who can swat away Inheritors."
As if on cue, a searing white light erupted from the arena below. The entire chamber was momentarily blinded as a glow consumed the battlefield.
And then—
With a brilliant flash, the battered, unconscious forms of Lyraeth and Vulcan materialized on the arena floor. Two figures, Verdantis sorcerers clad in robes, immediately rushed forward, weaving healing magic in the air as they moved to retrieve them.
King Thordan's gaze snapped toward Aerious. "Then what would you have me do, Emperor?"
Aerious chuckled. "Hm, you see, the only reason Vel'ryr has the numbers to compete in this festival at all is due to the Ancestors." A slow, casual shrug. "Not permanent allies, you see?"
Thordan's gaze darkened. "Then what are you suggesting?"
Aerious's smirk widened. "Ah… While the marriage between Avice and Princess Astrid will somewhat solidify our relations…" His gaze glinted. "The fear my nation holds would simply be… too much. After all, you've now two spawns of Octavia."
Thordan opened his mouth to retort, but—
"You want the King to place Mikoto Yukio under Vel'ryr, correct?" Percival's voice cut through the air.
Aerious said nothing, because he didn't need to.
He had already set the pieces in motion.
Thordan's jaw tightened, his fingers curling ever so slightly against the armrests of his chair. He exhaled slowly. "A preposterous notion," Thordan finally muttered, his voice laced with unmistakable venom. "Mikoto Yukio is not a bargaining chip, nor is he a pawn to be placed beneath another nation's rule as if he were livestock."
He narrowed his eyes as he stared at the emperor Aerious merely chuckled, his red eyes bore into Thordan with amusement, as though the emperor had already anticipated every word spoken.
"Is that what you truly believe, King Thordan?" Aerious mused. "No, no. You see, Mikoto Yukio is not some Galadriel knight. He is a spawn of Octavia. And that—" he leaned forward slightly, resting his chin upon interlaced fingers, "—makes him something far greater, and far more dangerous than any mere warrior of your kingdom. It also makes him something that you, your people, and perhaps even he himself cannot truly control."
Thordan inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening as he fought against the urge to snap at the emperor. Percival merely observed.
"Then tell me," Percival said, "if Mikoto were to refuse such an arrangement? What then, Emperor Aerious?"
Aerious' grin widened ever so slightly. "Then I suppose we shall see just how much of Octavia's blood runs through his veins. If he is truly one of her children, then he will not idly stand by while thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—of Vel'ryrian soldiers are put to the sword should war come knocking. That sort of divine conscience runs deep, does it not?"
The implication was clear.
"And if he still refuses?" Percival pressed almost contemplative.
Aerious tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Then he would be condemning Vel'ryr to ruin, would he not? And surely, Octavia's own flesh and blood would not be so heartless."
Thordan slammed his palm against the armrest of his chair, the resounding crack echoing through the chamber. "You would dare place the responsibility of your nation's survival upon the shoulders of a mere boy?!"
Aerious barely even flinched.
"A mere boy?" he echoed. "Ah, I think not, dear King Thordan. A mere boy does not singlehandedly swat away Inheritors as though they were mere flies. A mere boy does not bear the essence of a Goddess, nor does he shift the balance of power in the way that Mikoto Yukio has, knowingly or otherwise. No, he is far from a mere boy, Thordan."
Aerious leaned back in his seat, "He is an opportunity."
For the first time in a long while, Thordan felt trapped. Not by walls, nor by soldiers, nor even by the presence of the emperor before him, but by the weight of the truth. Aerious, despicable as he was, had a point.
Mikoto's existence alone tipped the scales of the world.
And with that knowledge came the certainty that he would never be left alone.
Never.
Percival finally spoke. "Out of the five spawns throughout history," he mused, eyes half-lidded in thought, "there was a certain... ailment that plagued three."
Aerious said nothing, though a flicker of interest sparked in his gaze.
"A general distaste for anything lacking mana," he continued, his voice distant. "To them, such things feel unnatural... Abhorrent, even. They see the mundane as something that should not exist."
The Archbishop exhaled, a whisper of pity slipping from his lips.
"I pity you, Emperor."
For the first time that evening, Aerious' expression shifted.
--------------------
[???]
"The contestant is unable to fight. Therefore, he is eliminated."
Mikoto barely batted an eyelash as Reynard's crumpled, motionless body was devoured by an overwhelming surge of blinding white light, his unconscious form disappearing in the blink of an eye. The speed of it was disorienting—there was no gradual fade, no transition. One moment, a battered fighter lay broken upon the ground. The next, the universe itself had whisked him away.
Mikoto exhaled sharply through his nose, barely concealing his annoyance as he flicked his bangs out of his face. His eyes lingered on the now empty space where Reynard had been.
"Tch. That was fast," he muttered, his voice carrying the barest hint of intrigue beneath a thick layer of irritation. His lips twisted into a half-scowl, half-smirk. "So they get taken the second they're too broken to fight? That's... convenient." He hummed, rolling his shoulders as he let the thought settle in his mind. "Now the real question is—who the hell is pulling the strings on that? Octavia, maybe?"
A thought passed through his mind, though he just dismissed it.
("What a fucking pain. I was hoping to keep my connection to Octavia under wraps a little longer, but that damn lightshow caught me off guard.")
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sharp, wet tickle trailing down his cheek.
Blood.
A thin rivulet of red seeped from his left eye, curling in a delicate line down his pale skin. It dripped once, a single droplet sinking into the ground below, staining it with a stark blot of red.
Mikoto barely reacted.
He only sighed through his nose, sweeping the blood away with a lazy flick of his fingers. Annoyance. That was all he felt—no pain, just a dull feeling, exasperated huff as if his own body inconveniencing him was nothing new.
"At least this works," he muttered under his breath, gaze flickering in assessment. "But it's overheating my Chthonia."
A deeper frown cut across his rosy lips. The strain was getting worse.
He could feel it—not in any conventional way, but in the delayed drag of his vision, the subtle flickers of distortion around the edges of his sight. It was like staring through a fractured lens, thousands of microscopic cracks distorting his perception, warping the way the world appeared.
Mikoto had refused to accept that Arcane Ascendance was beyond the reach of his Chthonia.
If he could not directly decipher its nature, he could construct indirect methods—loopholes—to extract fragments of its essence and piece together an understanding, even at the cost of straining his vision.
Arcane Ascendance may be impervious to direct analysis, but it still interacts with the world. Every spell from the form leaves behind mana turbulence, residual mana fluctuations, and distortions in the surrounding area.
By focusing on these distortions rather than the spell itself, he reverse-traced how Arcane Ascendance bended or repelled normal mana structures. It allowed him to understand the effects of Arcane Ascendance without directly analyzing its core principles. However, since he was essentially trying to force his vision to interpret absences rather than presences, his eyes experience severe feedback stress.
Though instead of analyzing Arcane Ascendance directly, he systematically dissected the structure of lesser, derivative magics to identify gaps where the unknown properties of Arcane Ascendance must exist.
By comparing multiple advanced magical structures, one looks for inconsistencies—areas where Arcane Ascendance interferes in ways he cannot normally perceive. It's akin to solving an equation where one variable is missing—infer the missing piece by examining everything around it. The strain comes from forcing his eyes to scan through hundreds of magical threads at once, overloading his brain with thousands of minute details.
Arcane Ascendance required an immense toll on its users. He theorized that when a user approaches their limit, their body and mana circuits begin to fail in specific, observable patterns.
By watching someone at the brink of magical burnout, he can analyze how their body fails to sustain Arcane Ascendance and work backward to decipher how it functions. It only works if the person is actively using Arcane Ascendance while at their limit. The immense fluctuations and breakdowns of mana circuits overload his Chthonia too however.
Mikoto found that if he tried to decipher Arcane Ascendance in real-time, his Chthonia immediately rejected it. However, if he recorded the "visual data" of its usage and processed it later in segments, his vision could handle it in smaller, digestible pieces.
That required him to shut down part of his active perception, essentially locking information away in his mind to be unraveled over time. The downside is that while storing this information, he experiences sensory lag, causing disorienting effects such as delayed sight, blurred vision, and moments of vertigo. The strain comes later—when he tries to process all the stored fragments at once, his brain floods with delayed insights, causing searing pain behind his eyes.
His loopholes were ingenious but dangerous. They force his Chthonia to operate beyond its intended function, effectively bending the rules of his own power at a severe cost.
("Blood leaks from my tear ducts when I overuse these methods. My vision blurs and flickers, sometimes leaving me temporarily unable to see. I experience a sharp, stabbing pain in my skull, my brain struggles to process contradictory or incomplete information. In extreme cases, overuse could permanently damage my sight or leave me blind for extended periods.")
His ability was not about outright defying the laws of Chthonia but about manipulating how he interacts with information.
If Chthonia cannot perceive Arcane Ascendance, he forces it to observe everything around it instead. If it cannot analyze it in real-time, he stores the data for later. If it cannot grasp its structure, he breaks it down by watching how it collapses.
These loopholes do not give him perfect knowledge, but they allow him to get closer to understanding Arcane Ascendance piece by piece, even if it tears his eyes apart in the process.
As such...
("If I push this any further, I'll probably start going blind for real.")
He exhaled sharply, already mentally preparing himself to calibrate his vision manually—a process that involved a lot of pain and a lot of unnecessary suffering.
But before he could even begin that torturous process—
A slow, exaggerated clapping reached his ears.
Mikoto's brow twitched.
A mocking applause.
Followed by a rhythmic, almost childlike skipping of footsteps.
His red eyes flicked to the source—
There she was.
("That clown chick.")
Or rather—
"Jester, you dolt.♪" The woman corrected, wagging a gloved finger at him playfully.
Mikoto's lips curled into an immediate scowl. "Don't care." He folded his arms, already irritated. ("She has mana yet she was with Vel'ryr. Still this pattern is too familiar.")
Verence.
A woman adorned in too much chaos and color, her long pink hair woven with ribbons and bows, streaked in highlights of every hue. Clown makeup decorated her face—two blue hearts painted on her forehead, a button nose, and lips smeared in deep red. Her dress, a garish blend of polka dots, stripes, and absurdity, only added to her overall walking eyesore of an aesthetic.
And worst of all?
The unhinged, lovesick glimmer in her striking yellow eyes.
"What do you want, clown?" Mikoto asked flatly, his tone already dripping with annoyance. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "If it's a fight, I'll kill you right now."
Verence gasped, placing a hand over her large chest dramatically. "I would never want to fight you, dear.♪"
Then, with a sickeningly sweet grin—
"I love you too much for that!♪"
Mikoto's deadpan stare could have withered a field of crops.
"...Not interested." He spat the words out like poison, folding his arms tighter. "And are you fucking with me by spouting that shit?"
"Nuh-uh.♪" Verence denied, smiling as if he hadn't just insulted her entire existence. "In fact~ I'll prove my devotion by giving you a birthday gift!♪"
Mikoto tilted his head, wary. "...What?"
She sauntered closer, uncomfortably close, until he could smell the faint hint of sweets on her breath.
"But~ I want a reward~"
Mikoto clicked his tongue. "Dipshit, don't you know how gifts work?" His frown deepened. "And what the hell is this gift anyway? If it's a ruse, I'll fucking kill you."
Verence's smile widened, disturbingly genuine. "Nothing like that.♪"
Then, leaning in just enough for her breath to ghost over his skin—
"I know a teensie tiny secret… about a certain big bad smarty-pants Ancestor.♪"
Mikoto's pupils shrank, his fingers twitched.
There was only one Ancestor he cared about. The one he wanted to tear apart with his own hands.
But was she actually telling the truth? Was this really worth entertaining?
He exhaled sharply.
"Fine. What do you want in return?"
Verence beamed.
And then, with absolutely zero shame—
"A big, fat smooch when you come of age!♪"
Mikoto's expression deadpanned into the abyss.
"...You can get a peck on the cheek."
"Deal!♪"
He sighed.
He was going to regret this.