"..."

In silence, the bear lumbered to the edge of the downpour. He picked up a stone from the ground, bit down on it, and flung it into the rain. The rock tumbled across the earth before coming to rest on the overgrown plain, utterly unchanged.

Then, with a sweep of his paw, Bear Bell caught a stray flying insect from the air. He exhaled softly, sending the creature drifting into the curtain of rain. The moment it crossed the boundary, under their watchful eyes, it began to vanish, starting from the part that had entered, until not a trace remained.

"Move. Quickly. This rain kills anything that steps inside it."

The bear muttered the words half to himself, half in warning. He clamped the battered coachman in his jaws, slung him across his back, and broke into a run,heading toward the direction untouched by the deadly rainfall.

"What in the world..."

Someone stared blankly at the deluge. It was already dusk. The sky dimmed, the sound of rain crisp and clear, the droplets plainly visible in the waning light. And yet, beyond the sound of rainfall, that stretch of land was utterly silent. The ground below, strangely, showed no sign of moisture. No puddles, no rivulets, not even the sheen of wet earth.

"Don't just stand there! Run if you want to live!"

One of the men grabbed the stunned observer and dragged him along. Curiosity was a luxury. Survival was the only thing that mattered.

Meanwhile, across the eastern plains, Ethan strode forward, sword in hand. The storm spread outward from him like ripples in a pond: the rain was at its fiercest near his body and tapered off into a light drizzle ten kilometers away.

A lone wild ox, quietly chewing grass along his path, stepped into the veil of rain. Ethan took a single step forward, and the rain advanced with him. In the next instant, the beast's body crumpled to the earth. Its head was gone entirely, leaving behind a neck ending in a clean, impossible cross-section.

Ethan took a few more steps. The rest of the ox vanished, erased from existence, until not even a trace remained—not flesh, not blood, not scent.

This was Ethan's potential: Raincaller. Its effects were unknown.

The downpour he summoned from the heavens slaughtered all living things it touched. Within ten kilometers around him, nothing stirred apart from the endless patter of falling rain. No breaths or heartbeats, only a deathly silence.

In the far distance, through the hazy rainfall, a tall tower began to take shape. It was faint at first, then gradually sharpened as he approached. Ethan slowed slightly, a premonition rising in his chest. The one he had come to kill was waiting there.

He quickened his pace. Though he didn't run, his fighting spirit began to circulate more quickly, flowing faster through his veins. His relaxed stride shifted into a purposeful march.

As if sensing the disturbance, the tower flared to life. A wave of magical energy erupted outward, sweeping the plains, spreading swiftly until it reached the rain, where it vanished as though it had never existed.

The probe was followed by an attack. Several blazing fireballs shot forth, trailing scorching heat and destructive light. The ground convulsed as earthen energy surged beneath it, all aimed to obliterate the area Ethan stood in, a clear attempt to blanket him in destruction.

The scattered fireballs that entered Ethan's curtain of rain winked out instantly, their heat and magic snuffed like candles plunged into deep water.

Those that struck beyond the rain exploded with terrifying force, shattering the earth, carving craters into the plain. Fire and shockwaves roared outward, hurling soil and stone skyward—but as the blast reached the rainfall, it was stilled, swallowed, erased without a sound.

Even the seismic pulses tunneling beneath the ground met the same fate. When they entered the domain of rain, the earth's upheaval ceased at once. The storm was only what lay on the surface. Ethan's true sphere of power extended far beyond the visible rain.

Lifting his gaze toward the distant tower, Ethan raised his blade high and brought it down in a single, thunderous arc. At the same time, atop the tower, a beam of power was unleashed: a torrent of energy condensed to its absolute limit.

For a moment, the twilight sky was split by radiant brilliance. The spell from the cursebinding spire, the seventh-tier Cluster Burst amplified by an array, crossed the distance in an instant.

Yet as it entered the storm, its path began to distort and bend. As Ethan's sword fell, the beam's trajectory curved smoothly away, sweeping past him to crash into a nearby hill.

The condensed energy detonated on impact, shaking heaven and earth. The explosion bored deep into the mountain's heart, flattening half its mass. The grass and trees were scoured away by the shockwave, proof enough of the spell's terrible might.

Ethan did not sheathe his sword. He drew it back, lifted it again, and struck upward, a cut far more deliberate than the last.

A vast rift split the sky. From it poured an avalanche of void energy, a deluge of annihilation descending upon Ethan, the eighth-tier wizardry Dirge of Ruin.

At its essence, a wizard's power lies in bending the material world through application of the void, altering temperature, structure, and substance. Wizardry ultimately circled back to that fundamental principle in which void energy itself was wielded as the raw force of creation and destruction.

The torrent descending from the heavens now was pure devastation from wizards who had touched the limits of their craft, who could shatter the essence of matter itself.

Ethan's sword rose once more, cleaving upward. At the peak of the motion, he drew it back and slashed again, each movement fluid and natural as breath. Fighting spirit coursed from his body into the blade, spinning into a vortex, compressing tighter and tighter—yet none of that energy escaped. It simply gathered, condensed, humming along the steel's edge, its power barely restrained.

It was no real sound, only an illusion born of unreality. The Dirge of Ruin, that vast waterfall of void energy, came crashing down within the range of Ethan's inner field. Yet in that instant, the torrent of annihilation was cleaved apart, split and guided away, flowing harmlessly along the boundaries of his domain.

His blade rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Though it never touched the descending void, each stroke somehow divided it, turning that tide of destruction into something as harmless as rain. The deadly energy fell to the earth like ordinary water, scattering across the ground to dissolve what it touched before sinking into the depths below.

Strike after strike, Ethan dispelled the void. Each blow was seamless and absolute. The eighth-tier spell could not harm him in the slightest. In Ethan's hands, the sword no longer seemed a mere weapon, but a scepter of dominion, an instrument that ruled this stretch of heaven and earth. Under its sweeping arc, all things were sundered, all powers driven back. Nothing could halt his advance toward the towering spire.

"Even among legends," Garcia murmured solemnly, "there are chasms of strength."

His gaze was locked upon the figure striding closer through the storm, a man who cleaved through every assault hurled by the cursebinding spire, bringing with him a curtain of rain and death. His tone was hoarse, his expression grave. Beside him, Wang Yu and Avia peered out through the high window at the approaching foe.

"A legendary knight?" Wang Yu muttered.

The distance was far beyond the range of his Chariot's perception; all he could do was look.

"The rain—his potential, I'd wager—annihilates all traces of mana and void energy that approach it," Avia said softly, her tone analytical but edged with tension. "So I can't sense anything further. But that power... it must be the hallmark of a true legendary knight."

The Perfect Fractal lens provided no additional insight, only a map of the spherical boundary of Ethan's domain, confirming what they already knew: no magic or void energy could function within it.

"Ethan Harris," Garcia breathed. "That rain curtain, that strength—there's no mistaking it. He was the Sword Saint of the Tudor Empire. After the Abyssal War, all records listed him as dead... but it seems death failed to claim him after all."

His voice trembled despite himself. Unlike Wang Yu, a strange anomaly who defied all measure, Garcia had risen through the ranks of knighthood without access to any shortcuts. He could intuitively sense the oppressive weight of that power, the unmistakable aura of a legendary warrior.

As legends, knights no longer needed fighting spirit to withstand magic or wizardry. Their mere bodies could defy spells, strike down ghosts, and harm even elemental beings. Aurelian and Wang Yu had once discussed this phenomenon. It was unnamed as far as human records were concerned, but known to dragons as domains: the ability to shape the world around oneself through sheer presence and will.

Yet even among legends, gulfs of power ran deep. If the gap between a grand knight and a legend was an impassable chasm, then the gulf between one legend and another could stretch on into infinity. The strongest among them and those who had only just crossed the threshold might as well have been different classes of beings.

"His title of Sword Saint is not merely honorary like mine," Garcia said grimly. "Ethan Harris earned it. He brought both swordsmanship and knightly power to their absolute limits. In every age, every account, he's recorded as one of the mightiest legendary knights to ever walk the continent."

He forced himself to steady his breath, speaking calmly to Wang Yu as though the knowledge might help them survive what was coming.

"No records ever determined who was the greatest of all legendary knights, because none of them ever fought to the death. But Ethan was the Tudor Empire's ace, a one-man army. With his sword alone, he could annihilate entire battalions, slay enemy legends. Wherever the rain fell, his blade could reach."

There were other details Garcia didn't voice aloud. After all, these were descriptions of a man once thought dead. If the Sword Saint before them had lived on since then... who could even fathom his strength now?

"I see," Wang Yu said quietly. "A troublesome opponent indeed. We can't contact Aurelian and the others, can we? No matter. He's probably aiming for me."

He nodded to Avia, exchanged a few brief words, and turned toward the main doors of the cursebinding spire.

The spire itself, founded by one of Avia's ancient forebears, was not a great organization. It was barely known outside Aleisterre. Its power was limited, its influence minor. The spire master's strength lay more in defense than offense. Whether that would suffice against the man Garcia called the Sword Saint was another question entirely.

"Well? Think you can handle it?"

On the stairwell above, Lilya had been waiting anxiously. When Wang Yu stepped through the front doors, she finally gave in to her fear and called out to him.

"Don't worry."

Avia gave her aunt a small, crooked smile, flashing a thumbs-up before tearing open a rift in the void and stepping through.

"...Yeah," Wang Yu murmured after a moment's thought, his hand brushing the hilt of his weapon. "I think we'll manage."