[The Moon]
The figure was radiant. No—she was incandescent. A being standing in the void of space, her presence alone outshining the distant stars. Her form stood upon the desolate lunar surface, the purity of her existence clashing against the vast cold emptiness.
Her hair, long and luminous as snow, fell down her back, the strands almost weightless in the absence of gravity, undisturbed. Each lock framed the beauty of her mature face, where red eyes gleamed beneath an ornate, crown-like headpiece. The metallic band curled, a central ruby-red gemstone embedded into the crest.
The armor she bore was more than simple plating; an immaculate white, decorated with sculpted patterns reminiscent of blooming petals and curling vines. The chest piece, the sleek gauntlets, the beautifully designed greaves and sabatons—all exuded an almost sacred image.
And in her left hand, gripped was a blade unlike any other. Long, slender and refined.
The hilt, an elegant floral design, petal-like filigree curling around her fingers—as if the weapon itself were an extension of her hand. The blade's length stretched like a silver crescent, dark, sharp, etched with thin, vein-like markings, pulsating faintly with mana.
Lucinda inhaled slowly.
She let the breath settle deep within her core before exhaling, her pristine sabatons firmly planted against the lifeless rock of the moon. The terrain beneath her feet was uneven, cratered, fragmented—yet not once did it threaten her balance.
Her focus did not waver, not for the shattered remains of celestial debris drifting aimlessly in space, not for the unblinking stars, nor even for the enormous, incomprehensible force looming from the dead planet in the distance.
No.
Her attention was devoted to one thing alone, the woman standing before her. A few paces away, perched upon the lunar surface as if she belonged there, was Rhiannon.
And unlike Lucinda, she did not shine. No—she devoured the light around her, she was still appraising her.
Rhiannon held her weapon casually—a massive blade, reminiscent of a claymore, yet far heavier. The weapon's surface was a deep black, carved through with ominous crimson lines. Its guard was jagged, brutal, almost as if the blade had not been crafted, but torn from the bones of something.
This was not the golden sword Lucinda had heard of.
Rhiannon's lips curled in amusement, her voice carrying effortlessly despite the emptiness of space.
"My, my. You're putting up much more of a fight than I was expecting." She tapped a single finger against her chin, her tone playful.
Lucinda did not answer immediately. Her grip on her blade remained steady, but her mind was turning.
("She's far more fierce than I anticipated.")
Agatha's recounting of Rhiannon's ferocity and Victoria's assessments of her power. Their words, they had done her no justice.
("I'd be hard-pressed if I were still limited by time for Arcane Ascendance...") She let out a slow breath, adjusting her stance slightly. The others had spent their time training, honing their magic, sharpening their blades.
Lucinda had done the same.
But she had not simply trained.
She had surpassed.
At a glance, one might assume that someone at the peak of magic had little left to refine—but that was an error of the small-minded.
She had sought to improve two things:
Her base combat abilities and her mana itself.
Most would have considered the second impossible.
For mana was finite, it could not be restored once expended, or so they believed.
But Lucinda had found a way.
Mana was made of particles far smaller than atoms, and like atoms, those particles never touched. Which meant that no ordinary restoration spell could work on mana as a whole—it would be like trying to heal scattered grains of sand with a single stroke.
Her solution was not as simple as just "restoring mana." If it were that easy, every accomplished sorcerer would have found a way to circumvent exhaustion centuries ago. No, the issue lay in the nature of mana itself.
Mana was fickle, untouchable, and ever-flowing. It did not sit still, nor did it exist in singular, tangible units. Instead, it was a vast, scattered essence, fragmented into countless individual particles, each no more than the faintest whisper of power in the vast river of mana that coursed through all things.
The main problem? Restoration magic did not work on what could not be grasped.
One could not simply reach out and gather the fragments. Nor could one conjure some crude construct to hold them together—the very act of trying would result in mana slipping through one's grasp like sand between fingers, dispersing before the spell could take effect.
She had discovered the answer through relentless experimentation.
It was not about controlling mana. It was about creating something that could. A net. Not a physical construct, not a spell in the traditional sense, but a conceptual framework.
She had woven the properties of mana itself into the net—a lattice that encompassed every individual particle, holding them in place without restricting their natural flow. It was the ultimate paradox: something that both contained and allowed freedom, something that existed yet did not interfere.
And then, when the net was fully formed, she did not restore her mana.
She restored the net itself.
By healing the structure that held the mana together, she was able to continuously reconstitute her energy without limit.
Of course, perfecting this method had been an endeavor of stubborn madness. If it were truly so simple, she wouldn't have spent countless days, sleepless nights, and an incalculable amount of mana nearly turning herself into a dried husk of a human. She had sacrificed time that could have been spent honing her swordsmanship, refining her technique, or perfecting other aspects of combat.
But here and now, none of that mattered. Because she had something that no one else did—an inexhaustible supply of power.
No time limit. No fear of depletion. No constraints.
"You're quite the spitting image of your Octavia," Rhiannon suddenly noted.
Lucinda, who had been poised in absolute concentration, barely suppressing the boiling tension of combat, felt her thoughts grind to a jarring halt. Her eyes flickered toward Rhiannon, brows slightly furrowing at the sudden, out-of-nowhere comparison.
A single tilt of her head conveyed her unspoken question.
And then—Rhiannon's lips curled into an amused smirk.
"Though, I suppose that might be an insult, considering she's a false God."
("...False God?")
Lucinda blinked. Not in shock, not in offense, but in utter perplexity.
It may have seemed like a throwaway insult—the kind of dismissive remark one might toss at an opponent just to get under their skin. But the way Rhiannon spoke, her tone laced with something more than mere disdain, suggested that this was not just idle provocation.
Even so, Lucinda couldn't bring herself to care.
Blasphemy? Irrelevant. She did not revere Octavia like the devout masses did.
But—
("No. I don't have time to be thinking about that.")
This battle required her full focus. Distractions were luxuries she could not afford.
"If those words are meant to taunt me, it isn't working," Lucinda replied evenly.
Rhiannon's smirk deepened. "I have no need to taunt an opponent to gain the upper hand, girl," she said airily, as though the very concept of psychological warfare was beneath her.
Was that arrogance speaking? Or was it the simple fact that she truly did not need such tactics?
Lucinda wasn't sure which was more unsettling.
For a brief moment, Rhiannon's gaze flickered elsewhere. Lucinda followed her line of sight—another battle was raging in the distance. But whatever had momentarily distracted Rhiannon, it passed in an instant.
Her gaze snapped back to Lucinda her expression shifting into something almost contemplative.
"I'm quite curious," she mused, as though discussing the weather rather than engaging in a battle between two immensely powerful beings. "For someone blessed by her, just what is your opinion of this era?"
The question was delivered so casually that Lucinda almost second-guessed whether they were still locked in deadly combat.
Lucinda blinked.
"What?" The sheer blunt confusion in her voice was palpable.
Rhiannon let out a quiet chuckle. "Is your brain not functioning, girl?" she quipped, arching a brow. "It's a simple question."
Lucinda's frown deepened, the subtle dissatisfaction doing absolutely nothing to diminish her beauty. She should have ignored it. She should have kept her focus entirely on the battle. But somehow—she couldn't help but unconsciously mull over the question.
"...Well, it's not a peaceful or perfect era, I guess," she admitted.
She was living proof of that fact. She had never been given an easy life simply because she possessed the so-called 'blessing' of Octavia. If anything, it had brought more trials than rewards.
"But it's not a hopeless one either," she continued, voice steady despite the looming tension. "Even with war on the horizon."
Rhiannon scoffed.
"What a naïve answer." And yet, despite her dismissive words, there was a flicker of something behind her red eyes—something akin to amusement.
She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly, as if contemplating how best to phrase her next words.
"I find this era rather depraved," she said at last. "Too many mortals whining about the hand they've been dealt, despite making no effort to change their circumstances. They wallow in self-pity, expecting salvation without sacrifice. Humanity is a foul race. In terms of power, I've encountered a few worthy individuals—but barring that? Conviction, ambition, an actual sense of self?"
A slight sneer tugged at the corner of her lips.
"I have yet to meet a mortal who could sway me on that matter. Well there is one."
Lucinda exhaled slowly, her grip tightening slightly on her blade.
"So is that your entire reason for doing what you do?" she asked, her voice carrying an edge of scrutiny. "To weed out those you deem 'worthy' based on your own principles? Is that why you inflict so much suffering?"
Rhiannon did not hesitate.
"It is."
Her answer was swift.
"You see, I have lived for eons. I was present in what you know as the Age of Gods." Her gaze darkened slightly. "I witnessed that era firsthand, and oh, how repulsive it was. I found none worthy—save for a handful. I had hoped this era might be different, but it seems content to disappoint me at every turn."
Lucinda frowned.
"That's no reason to cause such devastation," she said quietly.
Rhiannon smiled.
"Mayhap." She took a single step forward, hefting her massive blade with ease. "But I shall rectify this era and turn it into something worthy." Her stance shifted. "Enough talk. I would test your strength further."
Without so much as a warning, Rhiannon's form blurred. The force of her movement split the air, sending shockwaves outward, shattering the resistance between them. Lucinda had but a fraction of a second to react, her muscles tightening as her instincts screamed at her—move!
With a thunderous boom, both shot upward at incomprehensible speeds, the space igniting in their wake.
The moon below became a distant sight, shrinking into an orb of gray beneath them. The suffocating vastness of space stretched infinitely. Yet there was no time to admire the view. Because Rhiannon was already there.
Lucinda barely raised her sword in time.
The first clash rang out, the force of impact sending out a shockwave that rippled through space, distorting light and causing nearby floating debris to scatter in all directions. Lucinda's arms trembled under the weight of Rhiannon's monstrous strength, the force behind her strike akin to a planetary collision. Sparks erupted as their blades ground against each other, the friction birthing wild arcs of mana that spiraled outward.
Lucinda twisted, disengaging from the deadlock just in time to avoid the next strike.
A vertical cleave.
Fast—too fast.
She barely shifted her blade to block, but the force behind it sent her rocketing backward through space, her form spinning violently before she managed to halt her momentum. But Rhiannon was already on her.
A horizontal slash came at her midsection. Lucinda twisted her body mid-air, bending impossibly as the blade missed her by mere inches—yet the pressure from the swing alone sent another devastating shockwave outward, causing a nearby asteroid to detonate into countless fragments.
Lucinda retaliated.
Her sword carved a precise arc, slashing upward with ferocious speed, her mana-infused edge aimed directly for Rhiannon's neck.
But Rhiannon already moved.
She didn't block. She tilted her head ever so slightly, the blade missing her throat by a fraction of a hair's width. Then—without missing a beat—she countered.
Lucinda barely had time to process the motion before she felt it—a sharp, brutal kick slamming into her gut, the force of it folding her body inward before sending her hurtling through space, her back smashing into a drifting meteor. The rock split in half from the impact, debris scattering into the void. Lucinda gasped, the pain momentarily drowning out her thoughts.
Rhiannon didn't give her a chance to recover.
A streak of crimson light barreled toward her—Rhiannon was already closing in. Lucinda's eyes widened, and she reacted on instinct, flipping backward just as Rhiannon's sword obliterated the remaining half of the meteor she had crashed into. The force of the strike tore through the asteroid like paper, sending fragments flying in every direction.
Then came the relentless barrage.
Lucinda ducked. A diagonal slash nearly took off her head.
She parried. The impact nearly dislocated her wrist.
She sidestepped. The force of Rhiannon's next swing split apart a distant meteor in half.
But it wasn't enough.
Rhiannon was faster. Stronger. More precise.
And Lucinda was losing ground.
With one final brutal downward slash, Rhiannon forced Lucinda's sword downward, overpowering her stance. Before Lucinda could retaliate, Rhiannon's hand shot forward, seizing her by the throat in an iron grip.
Lucinda's breath hitched.
A smug, almost pitying smile curled on Rhiannon's lips.
"You're quick," she mused, her tone as smooth. "But you're sloppy. Your technique is a mess."
Lucinda clenched her jaw, struggling against the vice-like grip constricting her throat. Yet Rhiannon wasn't finished speaking.
"This era truly is disappointing," she murmured, her fingers tightening. "But don't worry—I'll fix it all soon enough."
With that, she hurled Lucinda with monstrous strength, sending her plummeting through the vast emptiness of space at speeds that caused the space to distort around her.
The vast expanse of the universe warped around Lucinda as she hurtled backward at impossible speeds, stars streaking past her vision like elongated ribbons of light. The force of Rhiannon's throw had sent her careening, spiraling wildly, her body twisting. Planets, stars, and distant nebulae blurred past her in a chaotic rush—but Lucinda refused to let herself be thrown around like mere debris.
Her fingers tightened around her blade, her instincts screaming as the airless space continued to rip at her form. Then, through the overwhelming inertia, her mind sharpened. Focus.
Her red eyes burned as she twisted sharply in midair, her form coming to a sudden, unnatural halt.
Rhiannon was already upon her.
Like a projectile, the Ancestor woman closed in with terrifying speed, a streak of gold cutting through the void, her sword poised for a final, merciless strike. A blow that would shatter Lucinda completely.
Lucinda moved.
At the last possible moment—an instant before impact—she angled her body, twisting through space, her figure blurring into a streak. Rhiannon's blade carved through the emptiness where her neck had been, missing by a margin thinner than a thread.
The pressure from Rhiannon's strike sundered space in its wake.
A monstrous shockwave erupted, the force so unfathomably immense that nearby celestial bodies violently shuddered, entire asteroid fields reduced to microscopic dust in an instant. Stars shuddered, their forms flickering under the force of the disruption.
But Rhiannon wasn't done.
Her expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Interest. Acknowledgment. The thrill of battle.
Then—she raised her palm.
Lucinda's eyes widened as she sensed it. A pulse. A distortion that defied logic. the fabric of existence ripped open in response.
A massive, horrifying red tear splintered through space, a colossal wound. The universe shrieked. From the rift, a grotesque gray hand began to emerge—enormous and nightmarish in form. It was neither flesh nor stone, neither living nor dead. Its surface was textured with spiraling runes of shifting meaning, inscriptions that seemed to defy comprehension, reshaping themselves into unreadable symbols that burned into the mind at a mere glance.
The scale of it dwarfed planets, its fingers stretching across the horizon. And then—from its enormous palm, a wave of energy began to form. It wasn't mere mana. It wasn't even an element. It was pure, unfiltered annihilation.
"That's..." Lucinda's eyes already worked to dissect the phenomenon. ("That red energy overloads oneself, fueling them with a foreign substance, causing malformation, I see.")
The torrential flood of crimson energy began to coalesce in its palm, a swirling mass of writhing destruction. It thundered violently, bending and distorting light around it, its mere existence warping the space it occupied. Reality fractured as it surged forward.
Then—it fired.
A beam of red, incomprehensible energy erupted forth, stretching across the universe with a thunderous silence that defied logic. It was a blast so immense, so utterly enormous in scale, that its presence alone shook the foundations of the universe.
Entire star systems disintegrated in an instant.
Asteroids were reduced to dust, obliterated as though they had never existed.
Distant galaxies trembled, their structures warping under the overwhelming force that threatened to unravel them. The darkness of space became illuminated by the devastation, a sea of red swallowing all in its path, consuming existence like an insatiable hunger.
The shockwaves traveled faster than light, a ripple of ruin that stretched across space, sending gravitational distortions that bent everything.
Rhiannon watched, unbothered.
Lucinda inhaled.
Her lips parted, her red eyes glowing with an eerie glow as she uttered a single word.
["Gluttony."]
Then, she opened her mouth wide.
And the destruction—the unstoppable wave of annihilation—was devoured. The beam that had erased stars, that had threatened to shake the foundations of the universe—was pulled into her, siphoned with ease, vanishing into the depths of her being.
There was no explosion. No lingering remnants. No resistance.
The energy collapsed inward, as though obeying some higher, undeniable force. Like a river suddenly reversing its flow, like fire being smothered by an invisible force. It funneled directly into Lucinda, swallowed whole without so much as a whisper of struggle.
And in its wake—silence.
The ruined expanse of space, the shattered remnants of what had once been celestial bodies, floated in silence. Lucinda exhaled.
The taste lingered on her tongue. She had taken in everything.
Rhiannon remained still. Watching. Then, she exhaled sharply—a quiet, almost imperceptible laugh escaping her lips.
Her sword lowered slightly.
"Impressive," she murmured, her eyes glinting with something far deeper than mere amusement. Acknowledgment.
Lucinda, still poised in midair, merely wiped the corner of her mouth, her lips curling slightly in response.
The colossal hand began to retract. With a slow motion, it sank back into the red tear from whence it came, the spiraling runes along its skin flickering as though acknowledging defeat.
Then, with a final shudder, the massive rift snapped shut.
Rhiannon rolled her shoulders, her gaze locked onto Lucinda with newfound intrigue.
"Perhaps you aren't as disappointing as I thought."
Lucinda merely exhaled, her lips forming a small smirk.
Rhiannon was excited.