"I'm a failure."
For a moment, nothing but silence filled the dungeon room as Will wondered if his ears were playing tricks on him.
But they weren't.
Sensing his bewilderment, Wignall pushed through his self-loathing to explain. He lowered his gaze, unable to meet the swordsman's eyes.
"I'm the only elf still here at the academy after six years… all the others have already advanced to the tower. Every single one of them."
"...Imagine being told by your own people that you're a talentless waste. A disgrace."
Will's mouth parted slightly, yet he didn't interrupt.
"Hah." Wignall let out a bitter chuckle.
"Just look at my illusion magic," he added. "It's supposed to manifest scenes from my fantasies into physical lands—like how my people constructed the arenas for the Crown Attack—yet they're just that. Illusions."
You can't actually defeat someone with smoke and mirrors.
Will remained silent, but his flickering gaze slowly steadied.
"You're the second-ranked student at Rigarden. You do have skill!"
He argued, trying to restore some of the elf's confidence before it could completely slip away in their dangerous surroundings.
Wignall wasn't moved. He finally forced himself to look up and meet Will's eyes.
Greens bore into magentas as he stated, matter-of-factly:
"It's like Lihanna said… all the people at the academy are leftovers. We're inferior."
There it is again.
Will stood straighter. "Why? Why do you guys keep saying that? All of you are set to graduate—you even have guaranteed placements in the tower. Why do you keep—"
"Because it's meaningless!"
Wignall snapped, leaving Will momentarily stiff. Then the elf lowered his head again, apologetically, and continued in a hushed whisper.
"You should've seen it with that imperious girl Mary. Or our formerly cocky underclassman, Aaron…"
Will blanked. Huh? Mary? Aaron? Who are those guys?
Wignall couldn't hear his thoughts. And if he could, he likely wouldn't bother clarifying.
"...Be it getting scouted through the grand festival, inventing a new spell, or attracting a watcher or faction through some rare or unheard-of feat…"
Wait—Watchers aren't just an academy legend?
Wignall still couldn't read Will's mind.
"The people with real talent have long left the academy for the tower. Meanwhile, failures and good-for-nothings like us spend six long years grinding credits and chasing graduation requirements."
Lihanna Owenzaus was able to arouse the Thunder Faction's interest during the grand festival—but that was it.
Despite a perfect track record at Rigarden for six years—no small feat—they didn't bring her into their ranks directly.
They're waiting for her to finish graduating.
That was essentially their way of saying: That's it. That's all you're worth. A big fish in a small pond.
Excellent by Rigarden's standards, but not even subpar for the upper institutes.
Maybe that's what this dungeon raid and the hunt for the Naberus was really about.
To show the tower that their party was different. A cut above the rest of the upcoming graduates.
That although it took them longer, they did have talent.
But all those plans had gone up in smoke.
Elfi…
Will was beginning to understand.
The hallowed Ice Maiden, Elfaria Albis Serfort, had been promoted not just to the tower—but to the rank of Magia Vander—after only a month or two in the academy.
She was paraded as the youngest Vander in history. The greatest prodigy their world had ever known.
Will had spent six long years comparing himself to his genius childhood friend and foster sibling… and drowning in despair.
Now he was catching on to what Wignall was feeling.
The similarities.
And yet… the surprise was only just beginning.
"I learned firsthand how soul-crushing it is to be inferior... from the girl I grew up with. My foster sister."
Huh? What did he just say?
"...Your foster sister?" Will repeated, unsure.
Wignall subtly nodded.
"Precisely. The most exalted one of our people—our princess, and the pride of all elves."
"?!"
Sweat trickled down Will's chin.
Is he talking about the Magia Vander, Elleaf Canaan?
AKA Ellenor Ljos Alf?!
Will was starting to feel a powerful sense of déjà vu.
Wignall's eyes turned distant. Melancholic. Nostalgic. A quiet blend of sorrow and affection.
"Ellenor and I grew up together. We were very close."
He couldn't suppress a soft smile as he recalled kneeling before a tiny girl, gaze full of affection.
"She was so small... I thought I had to be there for her. I thought I needed to protect her."
But he was wrong.
One day, he let Ellenor play with his wand after she showed interest in magic. He'd just wanted to spoil his little sister for once.
"Alas... she was one of the mighty High Elves. Her magic was strong enough to create The Kingswood."
With a single wave of his wand, Ellenor had manifested the pride of their people into this world.
A towering tree that touched the very sky.
It wasn't long before the High Elves came. They took her away.
Wignall had reached for her through a blur of tears, trying to stop them. But his foster father held him back before he could do something foolish.
And Ellenor had turned her back... and walked off with those thieves without a word.
For a time, Wignall had wallowed in despair. He heard the stories—how she rose quickly and became a Magia Vander.
Then, he got up.
He stopped feeling sorry for himself. He trained day and night, collapsing from exhaustion, determined to chase after her.
To meet her again.
Yet... people aren't made equal in this world.
Not even close.
Some can invent spells at two years old. Others can't even use magic.
Some manifest a world tree the first time they hold a wand. Others can barely produce party tricks.
Wignall curled himself inward, arms wrapped around his knees.
"...And here I am today. Still as much of a failure as ever."
"I make a big show of looking down on you, Lyzance... but it's only so I won't have to face the truth."
"I'm a disgrace to the name of Elf."
Will froze for a moment before slowly kneeling in front of Wignall.
"Oh… now I get it."
He smiled softly.
"Now I get why I've always liked you. Because you and I are the same!"
"..."
Wignall blinked, speechless.
The same?
What is he talking about—
His confusion was interrupted by realization.
He remembered Will's confession during the grand festival about his connection to Albis Vina.
The memory was blurry—fuzzy even—since they hadn't crossed paths during their first year. Still, like most students, Wignall had heard about the so-called no-talent in front of him.
Unlike the others, he'd never had the time or interest to bully the guy. He had his own struggles.
But he had heard the story—how Will was said to be bait to lure Lady Elfaria into Urbus Rigarden and the tower.
Everyone had compared them mercilessly. One possessed all the talent in the world, while the other had nothing.
We really are the same—
Wignall shook his head sharply and snapped.
"E-enough! Stop trying to make me feel better! I'm only slowing you down! J-Just leave me behind and keep going—"
"No. I would never do that."
Will shook his head and stood up, dusting himself off.
"I promise."
He smiled again—that old, genuine, harmless smile. The one that didn't look anything like the cold soldier from earlier.
Once again, Wignall saw Ellenor in him.
But not the merciless image of her on her throne—the one who severed his arm. No.
The one from before.
The girl who used to run through the great forests of Alfswood at his side. Beaming and laughing in joy and delight.
"Don't worry, Wignall. You're an incredibly talented elf. I know you are."
A memory flashed through Will's mind.
All those nights he stumbled back from a dungeon half-dead while everyone else was asleep.
Or those long evenings buried in books, walking past empty classrooms and quiet halls—only to find Wignall still at it.
Training until he collapsed. Puking his guts out, trying to squeeze out just one more burst of magic.
Will Serfort knew exactly what that meant.
Especially in a world where mages prided themselves on doing the bare minimum. Where training was seen as something beneath those blessed by magic.
For an elf—of all people—to grind harder than most Lyzance or Dwarves he knew?
That was talent.
And it wasn't something he'd let go to waste.
"I'll protect you until you're back on your feet."
Wignall Lindor's eyes widened.
Once again, he was speechless.
He couldn't bring himself to say a single word.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Wignall stood still.
His pupils constricted as he watched Will stand over the corpses of another wave of monsters, sheathing his bloodied sword.
Where does he get all that stamina?!
Wave after wave came at them without pause as they navigated the eerie labyrinth. Wignall had to conserve his magic, using it sparingly in case of emergencies.
But Will...
He was doing most of the grunt work. Slaying five enemies in the time it took Wignall to put down one.
He couldn't use magic. He had to run—nonstop—across each dungeon chamber, carrying and swinging that massive sword.
Yet he barely showed signs of exhaustion. A few measured breaths. A bit of sweat that dried almost instantly.
He hadn't even reached for water or rations.
Clench.
Wignall gripped his wand tighter as he studied the swordsman.
Will's cloak was torn and stained. His body was covered in bruises, cuts, and swelling wounds—some still bleeding, others dried. Several grotesque scars stood out along his arms and chest.
Wignall bit down on his lip before he suddenly shouted, hoarse:
"WHY?!"
Will turned, blinking. "Why what?"
"Y-you've been shielding me this whole time. You can barely stand." Wignall's voice cracked.
"W-why do that... and without even complaining?! W-why won't you look down on me like my p—"
"Because I know you wouldn't be as cruel as that."
Will smiled as he scratched the back of his neck.
Despite everything—despite the insults—Wignall had come to his aid when that crimson ant snuck up on him.
Despite complaining that Will was delaying the group by gathering proof of his achievements... the elf still tolerated it.
Just like the others.
No. Better than most.
Will could count on one hand the people in his grade who had never bullied him.
Colette. Her roommate. Rosti. Lihanna.
And Wignall.
"...?"
Wignall looked like he wanted a better explanation, but Will didn't have time to give one. His ki flared, and he snapped his head back sharply.
"Mrow!"
Kiki hissed in the same direction a moment later.
Wignall stiffened.
"What's wrong?"
Will slowly slid his goggles back on.
"...There's a weird noise coming from over there."
"!!!"
Wignall dropped to his knees at once, pointing his wand downward.
Bwroom.
A transparent, dome-like forcefield expanded around them. But whatever he was searching for, it wasn't there.
"Search isn't picking anything up." He frowned, brows furrowing.
"It wouldn't," Will said calmly. "...The dungeon's making more monsters."
Badump.
Badump.
Wignall sprang to his feet, moving into a guarded stance beside the swordsman.
The sound of a heartbeat—deep, slow, wrong—echoed invisibly around them, growing louder and faster.
Faint red glows lit up across the walls.
Veins of monstrous magic pulsed through the vine-covered stone, like blood flowing toward a single point.
BADUMP! BADUMP! BADUMP! BADUMP!
The volume and rhythm surged.
Then the dungeon writhed.
The wall pulsed like it was alive, inflating grotesquely—swollen like a pregnant stomach filled with something ancient and horrible.
And then it spewed.
Gloop.
Sploosh!
A wave of gastric fluid and reproductive slime burst out, blanketing their vision in thick, humid steam.
When the mist cleared...
Another trio stood before them.
Three floating figures, made entirely of flame.
Shaped like knights—but unarmed.
They didn't need weapons.
Their bodies were weapons.
Balkar!
Will recognized them immediately.
The book-learner in him didn't even hesitate.
And as he did—he panicked.
"Not good. These guys are—!"
He didn't waste another second on words.
"Wignall, run!"
The elf didn't even have time to be confused.
Will reached for something at his waist and pulled out a trio of light-brown metallic balls, each marked with a star-shaped pentagram.
He hurled them straight at the monsters.
The balls were strung together by a rope, which Will yanked mid-throw to arc the line and lasso the flaming beings.
BWOOM!
The rope caught fire—then exploded.
Torus Navalde!
The explosion blasted them back.
Will and Wignall used the momentum, flinging themselves clear of the creatures and landing several paces away.
Neither of them watched the flames with hope.
Not even foolish hope.
They waited—tensed—as the smoke cleared.
"What are they?" Wignall asked, voice tight and low. He never took his eyes off the burning silhouettes.
Neither did Will.
"Balkar," he said grimly. "They're worth eleven credits. One of this floor's notorious monsters."
A floor-unique species.
Bad news… very bad news.
But why had Will panicked like that?
Wignall didn't need to ask.
Will answered before the question could even form on his tongue.
He cast a quick side-glance, sweat trickling beneath his goggles.
"Their bodies are made of flame. Physical attacks don't work… and worse, they have high magical resistance."
Wignall paled.
So not just Will's worst kind of enemy—but also…
"You mean they're Magebane?!" he blurted. "E-even high mages from the Tower are afraid of them!"
Will didn't answer right away.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated—grappling with something.
Should he say it?
Should he drag Wignall into this?
He had to.
Will turned fully toward him.
"Yeah… the only thing that works on them is… elven illusion magic."
Wignall froze like a statue, his pupils dilating.
Will stepped closer, slowly.
"We're at a dead end," he said evenly. "There's nowhere to run. No place to escape. We have to fight. But I can't beat those monsters alone."
There was a saying in the Tower: If you plan to go deep, then an elf you must seek.
There were simply things only elves could do. Their pride wasn't baseless. Their god-complexes weren't unfounded.
Whether it was Will's fortune or misfortune to be separated with Wignall of all people… now was the time to find out.
"Wignall, I need your help."
"…"
The elven outcast stood still—then snapped.
He burst apart, not in rage but in fear.
In raw anxiety. Helplessness. Despair.
"I-I can't!" he shouted.
He collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest.
"I told you, didn't I?! My illusions are fake! Useless!"
Tears spilled down his cheeks, hitting the grotesque dungeon floor.
"Even if I try, I'll fail… I'll just fail!"
Silence followed.
Only for a moment.
Then—
"So what?"
Wignall stiffened, his breath catching as he raised his tear-streaked face.
Will's expression was unreadable once more. Eyes hard as stone.
But this time, his emotionlessness didn't feel cruel.
Just… unshakable.
The swordsman pointed directly at him.
"The two men I admire most in this world always told me the same thing."
"One—never give up. Two—surpass your limits."
Wignall blinked, confused.
"W-What does that even mean?!" he snapped. "Words won't save us—!"
"Wrong."
Will shook his head once.
"You're wrong. Dead wrong."
"Wrong about wha—"
Will silenced him with a raised hand.
"I can't use magic," he said quietly, "but I've always dreamed of it. Ever since I first learned of it. That power—beautiful, untouchable—has consumed me."
He lowered himself to one knee in front of Wignall.
"Even now, after six years of coming to terms with being just a sword, I still carry a stupid, fragile hope."
"That one day, somehow, I'll be able to do something magical."
Wignall's voice cracked as he asked, "W-Why are you telling me this…?"
Will took a deep breath.
"Because it's that hope," he said quietly, "the one I've clung to all this time… that's why I spent years learning. Studying magic. Reading everything I could. Just in case. If the day ever came where I could use it—I'd know what to do."
He lowered himself further until he was eye to eye with Wignall.
"And through that research… I realized something. Something crucial. The one thing magic needs more than anything else."
Wignall blinked. His voice was desperate.
"W-What is it…?"
"Belief," Will answered.
The elf froze.
"Resolve. Faith. Trust. Determination. Whatever you want to call it—at its core, magic is a spiritual power. It comes from the soul."
He raised his hand, gently placing it over Wignall's chest.
"And a soul that wavers… that sees itself as fragile, incapable, or already broken—can never succeed."
A grin touched Will's lips. Just a faint one.
"So what if we're not geniuses? So what if we weren't born special? Maybe it takes us longer to get where they are. But if we work hard enough, we can get there. We might not be diamonds…"
His eyes gleamed.
"…but even glass can be tempered."
Wignall's eyes went wide.
"You've spent your life training for this moment, Wignall. You know the theory. You've lived the grind. The only thing holding you back…"
Will placed a hand on his own chest.
"…is you."
"And that sense of inferiority? That voice that says you're not good enough? Trust me, I know it well."
Will's smile faded. His voice grew more somber.
"Maybe you're scared. Scared that if you succeed… it'll only get harder. That the next challenge will break you. That even after all that pain, you'll still fail. Maybe even die before you reach her."
Wignall's breath caught. He trembled.
Will stood slowly, towering above him once more.
"Hard work doesn't always pay off," he said. "Sometimes, there's nothing at the end of it. No prize. No applause. Just more suffering."
"But it's not pointless."
"Not unless you decide it is."
He reached out a hand.
"Now get up, Wignall. Cover my back. We're not done. We're gonna move forward—and we're getting out of this together."
Wignall's eyes blurred with tears.
"B-But if I fail… you'll—"
"Yeah. Maybe I'll die." Will nodded calmly.
Then grinned—bright, boyish, unshakable.
"But some things are worth the risk."
Wignall froze.
Will turned back toward the fire. The smoke cleared—and the Balkars emerged, untouched.
"And besides," he said, walking forward, "we're definitely gonna die if we just sit here."
"You and I—we've got the same dream. Elfi's waiting for me. And your sister… she's waiting for you."
"If we die… it won't be in a place like this."
"These guys?" He scoffed. "Just small fries."
In Wignall's vision, Will's back looked broader than before—like a figure meant to shoulder mountains, or defy the heavens themselves.
Silently, he stood.
And followed.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Sword drawn and wand raised, Will and Wignall stood side by side, facing the three Balkars.
The flaming entities opened their jaws in eerie unison.
BROOM!
Three spiraling beams of crimson flame tore through the air toward them.
Will moved without hesitation, stepping directly in front of Wignall.
Twack!
Twack!
Twack!
Three lightning-quick slashes from his moria blade diverted the fiery blasts wide.
BOOM!
The dungeon floor behind them erupted in a molten blaze, the heat licking at Wignall's back. He flinched—but Will was already charging forward, ignoring everything else as he closed the distance.
Gloo! Gloo! Gloo!
He slipped between them like a phantom, blade flashing.
One cut through a torso.
Another across the shoulder.
The third—right through the face.
But they didn't fall.
The flames reformed—fluid, formless, untouchable. The monsters knitted themselves back together effortlessly, as if his attacks were nothing.
Even the moria blade—crafted to nullify magic—had no effect.
Wignall's grip on his wand tightened, anxiety grabbing him by the throat.
That means… only I—
His hand trembled as he forced his mana to circulate, willing a spell to form.
"Come on… I'm begging you… please… please!"
He shouted to himself, thrusting his wand forward.
"Alluria!"
Three spiraling torrents of wind surged toward the Balkars.
He dared to hope—for just a second—that the wind would tear them apart.
But they passed right through.
Like slicing air.
Like they weren't even there.
Cold sweat slid down his face. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.
It didn't work… I knew it wouldn't… and now he's going to die because of me…!
The Balkars charged. Their flaming jaws opened wide.
Three more infernos shot toward Will.
He braced himself—sword horizontal, gripping it with both hands.
But before the impact could land—
Kiki jumped in front of him.
The Carbuncle's forehead gem pulsed with light as a large magic circle appeared midair.
Crystal Guard!
The searing flames crashed against the shining barrier, held back by the sheer will of his familiar. She trembled, but held her ground.
Wignall stood frozen, despair crashing over him.
Will gritted his teeth and risked a glance back, just enough to meet the elf's eyes.
He turned—fully.
And shouted with everything he had.
"Wignall! Don't give up!"
"Surpass your limits!"
"You haven't worked this hard for nothing!"
"I believe in you!"
Wignall stood stunned.
He… believes in me?
Me?
His mind reeled.
Even after I was cast out? Even after how I treated him?
Why? How—?
He couldn't make sense of it. Couldn't grasp it.
The voices from his past returned like a chorus of ghosts—whispers of doubt, cruelty, and rejection—screaming through his mind like a nightmare that refused to end.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
What are you even doing?
You're only embarrassing yourself.
Just give up, you disgrace.
Who do you think you're fooling?
A stain on our people.
I remember that day like it was yesterday.
Like a ghost I could never shake—always there, always whispering.
The day my people stopped pretending.
The day they finally told me what they really thought.
The day my sister disappeared from my reach.
But what did I do?
I ignored them.
I trained. I worked harder. I kept going.
Even after Ellenor—my sister—cut off my arm, I didn't stop. I didn't give up on her.
I endured the exile. The betrayal. The silence.
But now?
Now I stand here doing nothing while a comrade risks his life for both of us?
Unacceptable.
He has it harder than anyone. And yet—just one failure was all it took to drag me back into the old me.
The one who always doubts.
The one who never becomes.
The one who could, but never does.
Disgusting.
Crack!
It wasn't my soul that shattered—but the mirror I'd always looked into.
That false image. That broken reflection. The excuse I clung to:
"It's okay to fail. That's all I've ever been worth."
But not anymore.
I refuse to see myself through that mirror ever again.
The shards rose—gleaming, swirling—and formed something new.
A mirror that reflected not what I feared, but what I wanted.
The Wignall Lindor I chose to be.
And my goal.
Her.
A little girl bearing the sky itself atop her shoulders, trapped in that tower… because her useless older brother wastes time wallowing in guilt.
Maybe I'll never lift her burden.
Maybe I'll never take her place.
But I can stand beside her. So she won't feel so alone.
And I will.
Because he believes in me.
Because I believe in myself.
And I absolutely refuse to betray that trust.
I swear it—on my elven pride!
I will not give up on you, Ellenor!
I will not give up on my dream!
My wand pointed forward—steady now, no longer trembling.
A magic circle shimmered into life at its tip.
Alluria? Nardea? Fleuria?
No. I didn't summon any of those.
What came wasn't something old, something from textbooks or tradition.
It was something new.
Something that resonated—not with our old world, the one I'd never seen—but with this one.
And that made me happy.
It took me back.
To the forest.
To Alfswood.
To the days I ran barefoot with my little sister, laughter echoing through the leaves.
"Hear my call!"
"Come forth!"
"Grow!"
The forest came with me.
Great beams of wood erupted from the ground, hurling forward like lances, charging the Balkars.
Alfs Ringhul!
But this time—they didn't pass through like phantoms.
They struck true.
Piercing the Balkars, coiling around them, ensnaring them like branches twisting skyward.
Leaves sprouted from the tips.
They weren't monsters anymore—they were trees.
Interwoven, beautiful, like the woods of home.
"You did it, Wignall—!"
Will turned to me, a spark of joy in his voice—then froze.
Because I was already in front of him.
Kneeling.
One knee down, my wand lowered.
He stared at me, confused.
But I only smiled.
Not the teasing grin I'd always worn like a mask—not the smirk I used to protect my ego or hide my fear—a real one.
The kind I hadn't shown since that day.
The kind I only ever showed to Lihanna.
"Will Serfort," I said, voice quiet but firm, "please allow me to apologize for my rudeness."
The words came from deep within me.
Honest.
Earnest.
"You are a mighty warrior. One more than deserving of my respect."
I waited.
Then, slowly, his lips curved into a smile—a real one.
A smile that felt like a reflection of my own.
"The feeling's mutual," he said. "I've always admired you."
I stood still and stunned for a moment.
Then I chuckled—so soft even I could barely hear it.
I extended my hand.
The hand of an elf.
A race of magic.
To someone born without it.
If my people could see me now…
I knew they'd have more than a few things to say.
But I didn't care.
Not anymore.
And when he clasped my hand with a firm shake—my joy only grew.
Today, I, Wignall Lindor, made my second friend.
May fate let it be an irreplaceable one.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Author's Notes:
[1] Short chapter since my arm hurts. Also I had things to do the past two days so I didn't update.
[2] Feel free to join the discord: https://discord.gg/s3MME8X8ar