Belle turned, slow and deliberate, as though the act itself carried weight.

The storm above her did not relent. Vespera clouds churned endlessly, folding over one another in thick, violent spirals, black lightning threading through them like veins beneath living flesh.

Each thunderclap distorted the air, each flash briefly illuminating the devastation around her. The ground beneath her armored boots no longer resembled land at all; vast slabs of stone hovered in fractured gravity, suspended as though reality had forgotten how to let them fall.

Far below, the sea boiled and warped, its surface tearing itself apart where the laws governing the world could no longer agree.

He was already there.

Belle did not try to see his face. Experience had taught her better than that. The curse denied her such things; faces were taken from her sight long ago, reduced to absences, her perception slid around without ever grasping.

No matter how close she crept to ascension, no matter how deeply she carved herself into the fabric of death itself, that limitation remained absolute. She could not kill the curse; divinity wasn't meant to be killed.

Expressions were meaningless to her.

Eyes were only ideas.

It did not matter.

She took him in through other means.

His outline stood clean and unmistakable against the broken sky, a silhouette carved with intention rather than chance. Lean. Compact.

Every line of him spoke of control, nothing wasted, nothing excessive. He was smaller than her, shorter by several inches.

Perhaps five foot six, five seven at most if he stood perfectly straight. Against her armored height, he might have looked almost ordinary.

Almost.

She felt his heartbeat.

It was steady.

Calm.

Unrushed.

Not the frantic rhythm of fear.

Not the erratic pulse of uncertainty.

It beat with the confidence of something that had already decided how this would end.

And beneath that calm exterior lay something far more dangerous.

Power.

Not the wild, howling force of a monster.

Not the crushing divinity of a god.

This was different.

Refined. Compressed. An endless ocean forced into a flawless vessel, its pressure bending the air around him without ever announcing itself.

No energy leaked.

No aura flared.

No vespera stirred in his wake. The restraint itself was what made it terrifying.

He looked up—because she still stood taller than him—and spoke.

"I have come home, Master."

The words struck deeper than any blade ever could.

Home.

Master.

Belle regarded him in silence.

She had always known who he was. There had never truly been doubt, no matter how desperately she had pretended otherwise. When she had thought to herself about the unknown identity of Black, that was a lie...she had always known and would never forget.

Arlo Hart.

Black.

Leader of the Children of Death.

Her first student.

Her greatest sin.

I told myself I didn't know who Black was.

I told myself it didn't matter.

I told myself it was easier that way.

Lies.

Cowardly, fragile lies I wrapped around my heart so I wouldn't have to remember.

So I wouldn't have to accept that I failed twice.

Arlo, my second and last failure.

The wind screamed between them, tearing violently at his coat, snapping fabric like a living thing. Yet he himself did not move.

Vespera lightning flared overhead, briefly carving his form into stark clarity, sharp shoulders, relaxed posture, hands resting loosely at his sides, as though this were not the threshold of annihilation but a long-awaited reunion.

Belle opened her mouth.

When she spoke, her voice was flat. Empty. Stripped of everything but truth.

"This is no longer your home," she said.

"And I am no longer your master."

There was no tremor in her words.

No hesitation.

No anger.

Only finality.

Black chuckled.

At first, it was soft, almost amused. Then it grew louder, unrestrained, echoing across the ruined mountains like laughter at a graveside. A sound utterly divorced from sanity.

"Oh yes," he replied smoothly, delight threading through every syllable. "You say that now. But I already know."

He took a single step forward.

The air recoiled.

"You have a new favorite."

Belle did not react.

She did not stiffen.

Did not flinch.

Did not answer.

She ignored the jab the way one ignores a blade already buried too deep to remove without bleeding.

Instead, she asked the only question that mattered.

"Where is Sebastian?"

Her voice did not change.

Black's laughter cut off abruptly.

Then resumed, sharper this time, edged with something feral.

"So serious," he said. "Still the same, Master. No greeting. No curiosity. Not even a question about me after all this time."

He gestured loosely to the devastation around them.

"We have so much catching up to do. After all, the last time we spoke…"

"…the western border of the Human Domain collapsed."

It wasn't an exaggeration.

They had fought once before, truly fought. Sword against sword. Death against death. Their clash had torn reality open so violently that the aftermath could still be seen today, years after the incident.

Belle had lost something important that day, while Arlo had remained relatively unhurt.

And the world had learned a new fear that day.

Belle said nothing.

Silence stretched.

The storm roared on.

Black tilted his head, as if listening for something that never came.

"…Nothing?" he asked, mock disappointment seeping into his tone. "Not even anger? Not even regret?"

Belle's grip tightened on her sword.

Barely.

"It seems," she said calmly, "that you do not intend to answer me."

She stepped forward.

"Very well."

Her blade lowered by a fraction.

"I will find him myself," she continued, her voice colder than the sea behind them.

"After all..." she paused, then corrected herself, "The dead tell no tales."

Black's grin widened.

"Oh?" he murmured. "Then show me."

Belle closed her eyes and whispered.

"Blacklight Sword Art - First Form - Fear of Myself."

The world leaned inward.

The storm froze.

She swung.

The motion was simple.

Clean.

Elegant.

A single downward arc.

And then...

Oblivion.

From her blade erupted a beam of absolute black, so devoid of light that it erased color, sound, and meaning alike. It was not fire. Not energy. Not anything that obeyed mortal definitions.

It was the purest form of death.

The beam expanded instantly, devouring kilometers of land in a heartbeat. Mountains vanished as though they had never existed. Gravity folded in on itself and collapsed. The sea below screamed as it evaporated into nothingness, leaving behind a raw, howling void.

Reality bent.

Then tore.

Then ceased.

When the annihilation finally faded, there was only drifting ash and silence where a world had once been.

Belle stood amid the ruin, blade lowered, black armor humming softly as the last remnants of vespera lightning discharged harmlessly into nothing.

A chuckle echoed behind her.

Low.

Amused.

Alive.

Belle didn't turn.

She already knew that he was still alive.

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