Beneath the ancient canopy of the elven village, where time moved like drifting mist and the trees whispered of forgotten wars, the stillness was broken.
A single breath.
Ragged. Shallow. Then another.
Blue fire flickered from the center of the chamber—no longer a spell, but a heartbeat. Mana pulsed in threads of silver and sapphire, winding around the resting body of Milliarde. The ancient marks across her skin glowed—etched there by Minus herself months ago, in a time she hadn't expected to die so soon.
But death had come.
And so had the spell.
There was no thunderclap. No explosion of light. Just a slow inhale. A whisper. A stirring.
Milliarde's fingers twitched.
Across the chamber, the elder elf fell to his knees. "She lives," he murmured. "By the goddess, she's returned…"
The gathered elves watched in awed silence as the body on the dais arched, a gasp tearing from her lips like air returning to a drowned flame. Her golden eyes opened—slow, steady, gleaming.
But this was not Milliarde.
This was Minus.
She sat up, the cool air biting against skin newly claimed by life. Her limbs trembled—weak, foreign. This vessel wasn't hers by birth. But it would do.
It would serve.
"Still hurts," she muttered, voice hoarse, fingers gripping her chest. "He really did kill me."
She smiled through bloodied lips.
"Good."
The elder approached with careful steps, bowing his head. "Your rebirth was a success, Great Witch. The spell held."
Minus tilted her head, the grin growing as she looked at her hands—delicate, scarred from ancient rites, but surging now with power. "Of course it did. Serie doesn't make mistakes."
She stood slowly, adjusting to the weight of a new form. Though she bore Milliarde's shape, her soul—her will—remained untouched. Stronger, even. Her memories had not fractured. Her magic had not faded. If anything, death had sharpened her.
The village, cloaked in layers of enchantment and fog, would shield her from prying eyes. Here, she would remain hidden. Regrowing. Watching.
Until the time came to return.
"Does anyone outside know?" she asked, rolling her neck, fire already curling between her fingers.
The elder shook his head. "Only us… and Serie."
Minus let out a satisfied breath. "Good. Let them believe I'm dead. Let them hope I'm gone. It'll be all the sweeter when I return."
Far from the elven village, beneath a quiet, pale sky, Frieren stood atop a grassy ridge, the wind tugging at her cloak.
She froze.
A wave of turbulent mana had long since passed, but its residue still clung faintly to the world—a storm of overwhelming magical force that had erupted and then… vanished.
No trace left. Not a flicker. Just an unnatural silence.
She closed her eyes.
"…That was Minus," she murmured.
The bursts had been massive. And then, the complete absence of mana—too sudden to be natural.
She didn't know who had managed to kill her. But Minus had been hunted by the Empire. It wasn't hard to guess.
Her green eyes opened, stunned.
"She's really gone…" Frieren whispered, in disbelief. "The one who defeated me so easily… the closest mage to Serie… just died?"
A chill ran down her spine—not from fear, but from the enormity of it.
The Great Elf Witch was dead.
And the world felt different now. Only 2 of the 3 Great Elf Mages remained…