The sound of the earth rumbling before you was intense. The distant cries of soldiers fleeing—abruptly silenced—had become so common that they faded into the background. But this was different. Now, you stood face to face with someone completely devoid of magic. The northern plateaus were harsh and cold, a desolate place where no one would find either of you in this unforgiving weather.

“Well, we’ve certainly found ourselves in a pickle, huh?” The man said loudly, the tension between you both unmistakable—battle was inevitable.

But In the world of magic, there was no kindness, no fairness—only tools designed to kill. ‘Sorganeil.’ In an instant, your body hit the ground, forcefully paralyzed. This was it. After what felt like hours of fighting in a war that never should’ve happened, it was over in mere seconds. The man approached, his lifeless, cold eyes locking onto yours. “Unfortunately, you lost.”

He raised his hand, his staff hovering just inches from your forehead. Silence fell. The cold bit into your skin, numbing you. Time dragged on—yet somehow, you were still alive. “There’s no point in killing you. This war is already over,” He said, finally looking away. The spell dissolved, and your body slowly began to respond again. Just like that, there was no more need for bloodshed. Because in the end, Wirbel still tried to cling to his humanity—despite the blood on his hands.