Zerathose sat alone on a nearby rooftop, just out of view of the training field. He hadn't joined the others—not because he was afraid, but because he was tired.
Tired of being the weak one.
He watched the battle unfold from a distance, every blow, every clever maneuver. Merrick's resolve. Arashi's timing. Kagetsuchi's brilliance.
Especially Kagetsuchi.
She moved like she belonged to another world.
Effortless. Fluid. Sharp.
He clenched his jaw.
She'd mastered her magic so well it looked like an extension of her instincts. Like breathing. While he—
He looked down at his hands.
They were rough. Calloused. Worn from training.
But no matter how hard he tried, magic just… never clicked.
He wasn't fast like Arashi. He wasn't tactical. like Marek.
He didn't bend space like Kagetsuchi.
He didn't do anything extraordinary.
There was only one thing he was ever really good at.
Getting hit.
And hitting back harder.
He stood.
His body still ached from yesterday's drills. His limbs were heavy.
But his heart was on fire.
I'm sick of watching from the sidelines.
He dropped from the rooftop and strode toward the field.
—
Morgan turned at the sound of footsteps.
She'd just finished subduing the others, her expression cool and unbothered.
But when she saw Zerathose walking toward her, alone, her brow lifted slightly.
"Well," she said, hands on her hips, "decided to join the rest of your friends in the dirt?"
Zerathose didn't answer.
He was already moving.
In a flash—he was there. No chant. No warning. Just raw speed and momentum.
His fist collided hard with her chest.
CRACK.
Morgan staggered back two full steps, her eyes wide.
He hit me?
Before she could fully process it, Zerathose stood firm, breathing hard, knuckles clenched.
"I may not have magic," he said through grit teeth, "but that's not going to stop me."
Morgan blinked. Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the edge of her lips.
"…Interesting."
Morgan's expression darkened.
She raised her hand, magic flaring around her fingers like coiling ribbons of raw energy. "Cute trick," she said, tone sharp. "But you're still just—"
She fired a blast of compressed force straight at Zerathose.
It hit—or rather, it should have.
Instead, the spell shimmered as it touched him… and vanished.
Like it had never existed.
Morgan's eyes widened. "What?"
Zerathose didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He just walked forward.
Her spell… disappeared.
Again.
She summoned a binding weave of gravitational threads, wrapping them around his limbs—but they, too, flickered and dissolved on contact.
And all the while, Zerathose's voice echoed in his mind:
It's always been like this. My body…
I didn't understand it when I was younger. Why healing magic never worked on me. Why curses faded the moment they touched my skin. Why enchantments always unraveled around me.
But now I know.
It's not resistance.
It's rejection.
My body doesn't allow supernatural phenomena to coexist with it.
They get erased. Nullified. Like they never happened. It's almost as if I was forged to be the antithesis to all things supernatural.
He charged again, low and fast.
Morgan barely had time to react. She threw a punch straight at his temple, expecting him to dodge.
He didn't.
Her knuckles struck his jaw with full force—and she winced.
Pain shot through her wrist and hand. What the hell?!
She leapt back, shaking out her bruised fingers. "What is this guy made of?"
Zerathose didn't stop.
He closed the distance again, ducking her next swing and parrying her fist with his elbow, redirecting it at an awkward angle.
In the same motion, he spun low for a sweeping kick.
Morgan jumped, flipping overhead—and as she landed, she aimed a knee straight at his face.
But he was already gone—slipping just under it, pivoting to her blind spot.
Morgan gritted her teeth, heart racing.
She'd faced countless types of fighters. Elementalists. Wielders of cursed blades. Beings who could manipulate the soul itself.
But this?
This was different.
This was pure.
A blur of movement.
A parry. A counter. A shoulder slam.
Morgan stumbled back, panting now.
Her mind raced. Why isn't my magic working on him? Every spell fizzles out. Every enhancement fades. Every barrier shatters the moment it touches him.
She looked at him again, truly looked—and what she saw unnerved her.
No aura. No magical flow. No enchantment or presence.
Just a body trained beyond its limits.
A living weapon.
This guy is…
Her breath caught as she blocked another strike, barely in time.
A purely physical fighter?
No.
A perfect fighter.
Morgan felt her foot brush the outer edge of the training grounds.
She froze for a half-second—realization dawning fast.
Damn. I'm too close to the boundary.
Her mind raced. She had to create space. If Zerathose kept pressing like this, one well-placed blow and she'd be out of bounds—and out of the match.
No choice.
With a burst of mana, she propelled herself upward, flipping over Zerathose with practiced precision. Mid-air, she invoked a quick-hover spell—thin blue sigils flickering beneath her boots, allowing her to float and weave above the field like a dancer in air.
She soared behind him, twisting mid-flight to face the others—but her sharp gaze caught something else:
The others were standing again.
Kagetsuchi's hand rose, her breathing ragged but focused. "Got you," she muttered.
Morgan's eyes widened. "Wait—"
Too late.
A ripple tore through space itself—Kagetsuchi's signature distortion spell—Phase Grip.
Morgan's body jerked violently mid-air as if yanked by an unseen hook. She was ripped off her hover path and hurled sideways.
Straight into the arena wall.
She hit hard, the stone cracking on impact.
The force dazed her—just long enough for gravity to take over.
She slumped down, landing outside the arena's boundary line.
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy with disbelief.
Then—cheers.
Marek dropped to his knees, gasping in relief. Arashi flopped onto her back, laughing between gulps of air.
Kagetsuchi sat down, wiping sweat from her brow, her hand still trembling from the spatial cast.
Zerathose stood in the center, breathing slow, arms at his sides.
Morgan leaned against the wall, hair tousled, a thin cut on her cheek.
She blinked up at the sky, chest heaving, then let out a breathless laugh.
So they pulled it off…
Her eyes flicked to Zerathose, who still hadn't moved, watching her with that steady, grounded stare.
That guy…
She smiled faintly to herself.
A man with no magic… who erased mine and fought me head-on.
I like a guy who can put up a fight.
Morgan stood up slowly, brushing dust from her jacket, then glanced toward the group—beaten, exhausted, but proud.
She smirked. "Alright. You win."
And in that moment, even the sky seemed to lighten.
In a bustling city square, a young florist named Lina was arranging a bouquet for an elderly customer. The sun was high, and laughter echoed through the cobbled street.
Then—she blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Her hand froze mid-motion, her gaze suddenly distant—hollow, as if seeing through reality itself.
The old man frowned. "Miss? Are you alright?"
But Lina didn't answer. She gently placed the flowers down, turned, and began walking away—leaving her apron fluttering on the stall's hook.
No explanation. No hesitation.
Just silence.
Across the continent, in a coastal village, a fisherman named Juno was hauling in the day's catch. He laughed with his crew as the net splashed onto the deck—until he, too, paused.
His laughter stopped.
He stared out at the sea, eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Juno?" a shipmate asked. "You good, man?"
Juno didn't speak. He dropped the net and walked straight to the pier. When the others called out, he just kept going—toward the horizon.
In a small library, a scholar named Rynn sat in the middle of copying ancient texts. Mid-sentence, her pen halted.
She blinked.
Looked up.
And stood.
She left everything behind—books, notes, belongings—without so much as a word.
All over the world, it happened.
Five people.
Different cities. Different lives.
But the same moment.
The same stillness.
And the same walk away from everything.
By sunset, whispers spread. Reports filed. Panic beginning.
Five people.
Five disappearances.
Same hour. Same day.
All unrelated.
Or so it seemed.