Vartan’s entire body tensed. The gun—his last form of defiance—jerked from his hands before he could even make a move to aim it at the headmaster.

  It landed with a clatter that echoed in the room.

  “Under my degree,” the Headmaster said with power, “no scientist is to point weapons at mages. Vartan broke the rules.”

  Vartan’s eyes flared with fury. “You can’t do this to my daughter!” His words crashed into the room with all the force of a hurricane. “She’s only seven.”

  Varta felt the weight of the words crash against her chest like a boulder. Her pulse was rapid. Her breath came in quick bursts.

  The Headmaster’s eyes narrowed. “She has been slated for execution, Vartan. There is nothing more to say.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll tell you this only once,” the Headmaster interrupted with a dangerous growl. “Your daughter is a mistake, and I have no use for mistakes.”

  A sharp silence settled over the room.

  Varta’s mind spiraled through every moment that had led up to this. She had done nothing wrong. Nothing. And yet, because she was deemed a mistake, she was to be executed?

  Executed for existing?

  Her body trembled, not with fear—but with something far greater.

  Something burning.

  Her sadness curdled inside her, blackening, twisting into rage.

  Then…

  She laughed.

  Not a small giggle. Not a nervous chuckle.

  A full-bodied, echoing, manic laugh.

  "Ohohohohoho!"

  A rich, triumphant, theatrical laugh that no one had ever heard from her before. The sound shook through the stunned audience like an unexpected explosion.

  Every pair of eyes locked onto the seven-year-old girl.

  The Head Mage flinched. Even the Headmaster seemed to be slightly surprised.

  Varta lifted her head with a wide grin on her face.

  "Incorrect."

  The word cut through the air like a knife.

  She took a single deliberate step forward. Her stance was not of a child about to cry, but of a scientist about to present her findings.

  "Headmaster," she began as if reading out a lab report, "your conclusion is fundamentally flawed. A mistake is defined as an unintended error within a process, is it not?"

  The room was dead silent.

  Varta continued with energy now. "If I were truly a mistake, then I would not be here. Yet, I exist, function and continue to operate under conditions meant to suppress me. Therefore, my presence is not an accident."

  Her tiny finger pointed upward.

  "A mistake is something that fails to serve a purpose. But I have a purpose. My existence proves that there is a gap in your understanding, meaning the mistake does not lie with me…"

  She tilted her head.

  "…but with you."

  A weighted pause.

  The Head Mage gasped. A few scientists stifled their reactions, but shock was painted across their faces.

  Vartan’s lips parted slightly. He wanted to say something—to stop this.

  But he hesitated.

  Because what could he do? What could any of them do?

  This could end badly. Yet the moment Varta locked eyes with the Headmaster, the air itself seemed to shift.

  The Headmaster’s molten-silver eyes bore into Varta’s tiny frame with a glare.

  No trembling. No tears.

  Just the slight twitching of the child’s fingers at her sides.

  ‘No fear?’

  The Headmaster had seen fear in the eyes of countless scientists before—grown adults, reduced to nothing under her scrutiny. And yet… this child?

  A flicker of intrigue crossed her features. Then, annoyance.

  A scientist was standing before her as if she had a right to speak.

  The Head Mage broke the silence nervously. “P-Please, Headmaster, allow me to flog this insolent child!”

  The Headmaster did not even turn to look at him.

  “You will do no such thing.”

  Varta blinked.

  “However……you’d better not get any ideas, child. Scientists need to know their place.” The Headmaster’ spoke smoothly. “Beneath the boot of the Mages. That is where you belong.”

  Her silver eyes glowed faintly while turning her back on them.“You were born magicless. You have no power. You can only attempt to mimic us.”

  Her footsteps echoed through the tense silence as she walked away.

  “And the execution…” she added with her voice growing distant, “…stands.”

  A sudden jolt—like falling through infinite darkness—dragged Kintovar back into the void.

  Her breath hitched.

  Wait…

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  She recognized this now.

  A memory. That’s what this was.

  The past, the truth, her foundation—her motivation.

  That moment, that decree, that suffocating helplessness… that was why she fought.

  That was why she kept fighting.

  Her fingers twitched and reached for something, but nothing was there.

  She waited.

  For the next memory. For the next piece.

  For the answer.

  But nothing came.

  The void remained black. Silent. Empty.

  Her pulse quickened. “No, that’s not all of it! I survived. I know I did. I escaped. I—”

  Her own voice trembled.

  “…How?”

  Her fingers twitched again. Reaching. Searching.

  “…Why can’t I remember?”

  She tried to force the memory forward, but othing came.

  A realization crawled into her gut like a parasite.

  She was dying.

  Her mind was slipping like sand through open hands..

  “Not now. I’m not— I’m not done. IM NOT DONE!”

  In that moment, a single thought crashed through the static.

  Roselle.

  Her chest clenched. "She still needs me."

  Risebelle.

  Her hands twitched again. "I still have things to teach her."

  Runebelle.

  Her breath came faster. "I haven't seen her smile with my own eyes yet."

  Her girls. Her creations. Her responsibility.

  She couldn't die here, but the void was consuming her, and soon, there would be nothing left.

  The Mystical Forest Beach was no longer a battleground. It was a graveyard of resistance.

  The once-vivid twilight sky had dimmed. The sand, once soft beneath everyone’s feet felt like iron beneath their bodies.

  Roselle couldn't move.

  None of them could.

  The Psychic Tendrils locked every muscle in place, stretching limbs just enough to mock the illusion of control.

  The Headmaster stood at the center of it all. And in her hand…

  Sybil.

  Dangling like a broken doll. She trembled as the Headmaster’s fingers gripped her neck tightly.

  The Headmaster spoke smooth. “Such a waste. You ran so fast… yet still ended up in my grasp.”

  Sybil let out a weak sound.

  Roselle wanted to move, to do something—but every inch of her body was locked down.

  Risebelle’s teeth were gritted.

  And Runebelle—

  Her pod floated, ensnared by one of the Headmaster’s tendrils. The blue liquid inside it had begun to change to a sickly, unnatural green.

  Roselle’s breath hitched. “No. No, no, no, what is she doing to her?!”

  The Headmaster cut through the air. “Do you understand what comes next?”

  Silence.

  She tilted her head slightly. “No?”

  A faint, almost pitying sigh.

  “The city. The grand stage. Where this era’s true rulers reside. I will arrive before the council of Archmages in the North, South, East and Western Kingdoms and warn them of the coming war. Of the rebels. Of the ‘great scientist uprising.’”

  Her fingers twitched slightly. The psychic tendrils tightened.

  “The mere mention of a coordinated scientist rebellion will be enough. The moment they perceive a threat…”

  She smiled.

  “…they will act. Scientists will be erased.”

  Her silver eyes flashed.

  “And when I am done, not a single one will remain in this world.”

  A cold dread seeped into Roselle’s stomach.

  This wasn’t just about her anymore. It wasn’t just about Kintovar. It was about every scientist, every creation, every last soul that had defied the mages' supremacy.

  Alan clenched his fists. “That’s manipulation. We never signed up to be a part of that!”

  Sylra, despite her exhaustion let out a growl of frustration. “Damn right! You’re twisting the truth! The scientists ain’t trying to overthrow anyone!”

  The Headmaster simply… tilted her head.

  “Oh? Then I suppose that you will all live to correct me.”

  A cruel smirk spread across her lips.

  “…No?”

  The Headmaster raised her free hand.

  And the tendrils pulled.

  Pain ripped through everyone’s bodies—deep, suffocating, unbearable.

  And inside Runebelle’s pod—

  The green liquid bubbled.

  The headmaster's malevolent laughter echoed through the battlefield. Her gaze was fixed on Risebelle

  Roselle’s vision blurred. Her cheeks were already wet. Her heart was hurting already. She stared horrified at Risebelle.

  Risebelle.

  Her sister.

  “No. No, no, no—“

  She struggled with all of her might, but the tendrils wouldn’t let her go.

  “Let this be a lesson,” Aimathema declared as cold as polished steel. “Magic reigns supreme.”

  Then, she laughed.

  Roselle screamed, or at least—she tried to.

  Her voice barely made it past her throat.

  But then—

  Risebelle moved.

  A shudder ran through her body, but she lifted her head.

  And Roselle’s breath caught.

  Because—

  Risebelle was crying.

  It wasn’t like Roselle’s own tears. Risebelle’s tears were furious. They rolled down her face, hot and defiant, as she glared at Aimathema with a hatred that burned brighter than any magic ever could.

  “…You think this makes you powerful?” Risebelle’s was hoarse.Her teeth clenched. Her shoulders trembled, yet her eyes never wavered.

  “I already knew what mages were like,” she whispered. “Arrogant. Self-obsessed.”

  Her breathing turned ragged.

  “But you? You’re worse than all of them combined.”

  The tendrils squeezed tighter, but she forced the words out anyway.

  “You’re not a ruler. You’re not a leader.”

  Her voice cracked.

  “You’re just a tyrant trying to sit on a throne of corpses.”

  She spat at the ground near Aimathema’s feet.

  “I hope you choke on it.”

  Aimathema exhaled sharply. "That's enough out of you."

  She raised one hand.

  "Mind Break."

  Risebelle's body stiffened as a violent tremor wracked through her limbs.

  Her world blurred—

  Then—

  BANG!

  A single shot cracked through the battlefield.

  The psychic tendril around Risebelle snapped. The severed end whipped wildly before dissolving into mist.

  Aimathema’s eyes widened for half a second.

  Then a second shot rang out. This time, the bullet was aimed at Risebelle. It struck her square in the chest—

  Not with lead.

  With water.

  A shockwave of liquid burst outward upon impact, and then—

  Risebelle surged.

  Magic flooded through her veins like a dam had been shattered.

  Her body thrummed with power. She thrusted the torrent towards Aimathema with a force that sent her flying back.

  The Headmaster barely managed to twist her body midair to skid to a stop on the sand. Her gaze snapped to Risebelle with a scowl. “What type of darkness is going on here?!”

  Risebelle ignored her and quickly let out a torrent of water that rushed toward Roselle.

  "Roselle, charge to 200%! Do it quick!"

  Roselle’s eyes widened, but there was no hesitation.She clenched her fists. Magic ignited inside her. Her entire body crackled with yellow lightning which began to change to red in mere moments. Her magic was draining fast—

  But then—

  The bracelet that Kintovar gave them reacted and gradually restored her magic while she was using it.

  Water met lightning and turned it into a violent storm that shattered the psychic tendrils around Roselle.

  Roselle gasped.

  The storm of electricity and water raged through the battlefield. The psychic tendrils that had once bound them crumbled like fragile glass.

  Roselle stumbled forward, gasping for air. Risebelle did the same. But then, they looked beside them to see a figure wrapped in a dark cloak. No sound had announced their arrival.

  Roselle's breath hitched. ‘How?’

  Risebelle’s eyes narrowed. Whoever this was had no presence. No magical aura.

  Aimathema's silver eyes flickered toward the figure.“Who the hell are you?”

  The figure grasped the edges of their cloak and threw it off, revealing a girl with bubblegum-colored hair. She had medium-length locks framing her face. She wore a pink lab coat over a matching pink dress with black pants underneath. She had a high-pitch when she spoke.

  "Dr. Haras reporting for duty!" she exclaimed. Then, she put one finger up to her lip and added with a playful tone, "Wait... that's not right... I am a scientist, I am here to experiment!"

  .

  Aimathema’s breath hitched. Her silver eyes widened—not in curiosity, not in intrigue—but in fury.

  “No…!” she snarled. “Impossible!”

  The air around the headmaster rippled with psychic energy that caused the very ground beneath her to tremble.

  “You were dead!” The words cracked through the battlefield like a whip. “We made sure of it!”

  Haras tilted her head.

  “Dead?” She placed a finger against her lips and tapped it thoughtfully. “Hmm… nope! Don’t recall being dead!”

  Then, her eyes lit up.

  “Ooooh, wait a sec—” She snapped her fingers. “You mean that ragdoll I was testing!”

  Risebelle and Roselle exchanged bewildered glances.

  Haras giggled and clasped her hands together.

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember now! That was one of my better experiments! Had to make sure it looked real in case you guys ever came for me, y’know?” She paused, and then her eyes darted upward in thought. “Although… now that I think about it… that probably wasn’t a test.”

  Aimathema’s glare darkened.

  Haras grinned.

  “Right! Because I totally did it on live mages!” She let out a tiny gasp and placed a hand over her mouth. “Oops! My bad!”

  Risebelle’s eyes widened. A sudden flash of memory seized her.

  —A tight grip. A warm embrace. Yet she had struggled. Flailed. Fought.

  "No—! Let go of me!"

  —Laughter. High-pitched. Not cruel, but... not gentle either.

  "Silly little Belle! Struggling’s no good when I’m doing science~!"

  The present crashed back into focus. Haras stood there, smiling.

  Risebelle staggered back.

  "Y-You’re…" Her voice broke. A sob choked her.

  Tears burned at the edges of her vision.

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