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    Erza Grimhart stepped out of the shadows. Her skin was split with deep fractures, her hands chipped and incomplete. Yet with every step she took, shards of porcelain lifted from the floor and drifted toward her, stitching themselves back into place. Piece by piece, she rebuilt herself simply by continuing to walk.

    “So you really can survive something like that,” Luke said.

    “I told you I would. The greater the tragedy for us, the better the result,” Erza replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

    Eleanor stared at her while the last fragments settled into place.

    “I thought you were dead,” Eleanor admitted.

    “Me? Dead?” Erza touched her chest as if genuinely offended. “Just for being torn apart? Darling, I’m half porcelain doll. Breaking is practically a daily routine.”

    Before anyone could answer, rapid footsteps sounded, and Anne flung herself into Erza, wrapping her in a crushing hug.

    “Hey, little doll, there’s no need to be upset,” Erza murmured, patting her head lightly. “You and I both know how hard we are to get rid of.”

    Their relationship was strange. Anne wanted to kill Erza. And loved her. Or maybe she didn’t want to kill her at all, just felt obligated because of her family. Or maybe she loved Erza so fiercely that trying to kill her had become her way of helping her grow stronger. Luke had no real way to know. But he couldn’t deny it was interesting.

    Jack, Evangeline, and Mason arrived next.

    “So you idiots actually pulled it off,” Evangeline said.

    More people were pouring into the throne hall now, soldiers, survivors, commanders. Everyone gathering around the throne. The group of them stood together, but no one paid particular attention. Everyone here had the same single desire: to go home.

    “Hey, Jack,” Luke called, lifting his shirt.

    A deep wound ran along his side, the flesh blackened and sealed only by his Dark Blood.

    “Mind giving me a hand? I’m kind of dying.”

    “Y-yeah, of course. By the Goddess of Kindness, Luke, you have barely any HP left.”

    “You don’t have to announce it to the whole hall,” Luke muttered.

    Evangeline clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Good work, Cinderella. I never doubted you.”

    Mason stood nearby, missing an arm, looking exhausted. “I barely did anything. Got taken out at the start.”

    Luke didn’t answer at first, breathing through the pain as Jack worked.

    “You’re lucky,” Jack said quietly. “Your organs could have spilled out.”

    “Lucky… sure. Let’s go with that.”

    Their exchange drew stares. The soldiers nearby watched them like they were witnessing something impossible. But Eleanor was the one who stepped closer, still bewildered.

    “How did you do it?” she asked. “For a moment, I truly thought everything had gone wrong.”

    The group looked at each other. They all had the same hesitation. How do you explain the things you saw when no one else saw them? The system messages only they received. The conversation only they had. The truth they learned face to face with the monster everyone else only glimpsed through a storm of ice and lightning.

    Luke exhaled, choosing the simplest truth they could share.

    “The Midnight King was cursed,” he said. “The same curse that leaves those statues outside sleeping.”

    A simplification. The petrification wasn’t death; it was a seal.

    Luke reached into his inventory and drew out the mask. Cracked. Burned. Silent.

    “If the creature turned to stone,” he said, “it would seal its own power and fall asleep, just like the others.”

    The angel’s mask rested in his hand.

    “When I put this mask on, I turn into a statue. While I’m in that form, none of my skills work. Not even my attributes. Any weapon I’m holding does no damage. The statue form was sealing me. So how was I supposed to kill something like him?” Luke exhaled, meeting the soldiers’ eyes. “By turning him into a statue too.”


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    The soldiers around them exchanged looks of sudden understanding, as if the idea had just sparked all at once.

    It was a lie. Or half of one. Luke wasn’t about to explain the real story here. It was long, complicated, and he didn’t have the patience. He’d explain to Eleanor later. She already knew more than most.

    The mask was the Witch. And according to the Orc Lord, the Witch was the King’s weakness. The mask had granted Luke immunity to the king’s petrification — and, at the same time, given him the skill to seal the king. Exactly as the Orc Lord had warned. Exactly as the hidden riddle in the main mission had implied: that the Witch had once been sealed.

    Luke placed the mask back into his inventory. Only the soulbound owner of an item could activate its enchantment on another being. The plan had been simple and reckless: give Luke one moment. One second. A single breath between removing the mask from his own face and forcing it onto the king.

    If he had turned completely to stone before finishing the motion, the fight would have ended. Everyone would have died. That was why the others fought, why they bought time, why they allowed the king to believe he had already won.

    “That’s my favorite kind of assassination,” Erza said. “Hand the enemy their victory, and then… rip it out of their hands.”

    Erza and Anne began walking toward the throne.

    Soon after, Ronan, Christine, and several of the maids came rushing in. Ronan hurried to them first. He looked at each of their faces and then took all their hands at once.

    “Thank you, my friends. Truly. Thank you.”

    His voice was thick with emotion.

    “When Christine and I have a child,” he said, wiping at his eyes, “depending on the gender… I will name them after one of you.”

    “No, we will not,” Christine replied, her expression as flat and unamused as ever.

    “We can talk calmly about that later, dear,” Ronan murmured.

    More survivors filed into the castle.

    “Commander Ronan!” someone called.

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