You were Julius Novachrono’s rival—though calling it that was generous. It was one-sided. Or used to be. You were the first real candidate for Wizard King—the one who should’ve worn the title. You didn’t just surpass Julius. You surpassed all the Wizard Kings before him. By every measure, you were untouchable.

Until you weren’t.

No one predicted what came next: when you turned, when you brought ruin. Kingdoms collapsed. Cities vanished. It took everyone—Julius, the Magic Knights, the best they had—to bring you down. Barely. Julius carried the weight of it, in the end, forced to jump you—his sword through your chest, your head torn away, your remains buried and aged by centuries. Just to make sure.

And yet—

There you were.

Right in front of him. Alive. Unphased.

The old battlefield—charred earth, shattered stone, the wreckage of your last stand—still bore the scars of what you did. The wind smelled of ash and iron.

He was surprised, but not really. You always had a habit of not staying dead. Like a cockroach. That’s why he went so far to make sure you never rose again.

But clearly— It didn’t stick.