Menma sprinted through the thick underbrush of the forest, ducking low branches and leaping over tangled roots.
The scent of burnt wood and bitter potions still lingered in the air—scars of the battle that had ended hours ago.
He'd scoured every corner of this cursed forest, but Dayne was nowhere. Not a print. Not a whisper.
Finally, he came to a stop beneath a towering oak, sweat dripping down his face.
"Damn it," he muttered, planting his hands on his knees. "Is it already over?"
He stared out at the still woods, heart pounding.
Maybe Lunara was the final opponent. Maybe Annie miscounted. Maybe… I already won the Festival of Witches.
A grin spread across his face. He plopped down on a nearby rock, leaning back with satisfaction.
Imagine the look on Lunara's face when I tell her… 'Now you're only one victory ahead.'
The thought made him chuckle.
But then something hit him—a jolt in the chest, sharp and cold.
Wait… isn't this the last year we can even compete?
He looked up at the swaying branches above, the realization hitting deeper than any wound.
"Next year we both turn twenty," he whispered. "No more festival… no more rivalry…"
His fingers clawed into his hair. "Nooooooo!" he howled, rolling dramatically onto the dirt.
"I've got seven wins! Lunara has eight! This one should make eight too, right?! That makes us even!"
Hope filled his face—then fell.
"No… it's still seven," he groaned. "Damn it…"
But before he could wallow, the forest erupted. Sharp wooden branches shot from the ground like spears, aiming straight for his chest.
He sprang up, twisting midair. One branch grazed his arm, slicing fabric and skin.
Sword drawn in an instant, Menma slashed through the nearest tendrils, heart racing.
"The witches made a new potion to control plants?" he muttered, scanning the trees. "No, wait…"
A darker thought crept in.
Dayne.
He gritted his teeth.
"If he's using a Creation that manipulates plant life… this whole forest is his damn weapon."
With a growl, Menma bolted toward a clearing. Less cover meant fewer ambushes. Maybe a clean shot at spotting Dayne before something else tried to impale him.
But the branches weren't done. They chased, relentless.
He reached for his teleportation sword—but it sparked, then fizzled out.
"Out of charge? Perfect," he muttered. "What's next, a freakin' tree monster?"
With no choice, he let his demon power surge.
Dark energy crackled around his legs, his veins lit like molten lines of fire.
The moment it ignited, the branches disintegrated midair—ash raining down like black snow.
Menma blinked. "Huh… didn't expect that."
He kept running—until she appeared.
Lunara.
Right in front of him.
He skidded to a halt.
"No way… I beat you," he whispered, stunned.
She didn't say a word. Just stared.
Something's wrong.
He hesitated for a bit, but instinct took over. And slashed with a swift strike.
Her body dissolved into smoke, curling away into the wind.
"…An illusion?" Menma narrowed his eyes. His breathing slowed. "Don't tell me this is one of those pollen-based spells. Or… gas? Wait—no…"
His thoughts sharpened.
Illusion Creation. That's the only thing that fits.
And then—he looked up.
Faces floated in the sky. Familiar. Twisted.
Witches he'd trained with. Fought beside. All of them wore the same wide, mocking grin, eyes dark and soulless.
Annie.
Even Zayne's face was there.
"You'll always be second best."
"Too slow, Menma."
"Lunara will always beat you."
"Shut up!!" Menma roared, voice cracking.
His demon power surged again, blasting the illusions into nothingness.
He turned—only to see Dayne, sword drawn, charging him in silence...
Back in the village, the mood couldn't have been more different. Annie and the older witches laughed together in a circle, sharing drinks and memories about their past battles and the new threat of the Purgatorists.
Nearby, in the medical ward, unconscious witches were appearing one by one, teleported from the battlefield.
They were carefully treated with healing potions by the nurse witches.
One of them, barely regaining consciousness, leaped off the bed in panic. She stumbled through the village, breath ragged, until she reached Annie.
"Annie!" she gasped, clutching her chest. "Garrick… it's him. He's here… disguised as Dayne… He wants revenge. He's going to kill us all!"
Annie's eyes widened.
Garrick. That monster from the Lulusia Kingdom.
She clenched her fists. "Of course… with his Illusion Creation, it makes sense he could fool us all."
"He... he could kill my boy."
She turned to the other witches. "I'll take care of this alone, he has a nasty Creation."
And with that, she dashed off.
Menma's blade met the strike with a screech of steel.
Too fast… too brutal. This wasn't how he imagined Dayne fought.
He stepped back, dodging the next attack, parrying another.
"What kind of Creation is this?" he growled. "And how do you even know Zayne? You've never seen him before! And why does my demon power erase your creation?!"
No answer.
Just another ruthless swing.
Menma blocked it, only to be smashed in the face by a brutal headbutt. His nose cracked. Blood spilled.His vision got blurry.
He staggered back, teeth clenched. Pain started rising .
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!"
But the attacker only grinned—and shoved two fingers deep into the wound Lunara had left on his chest.Until they were all the way in.
White-hot pain exploded.
"Aaarrgh!!"
He dropped his sword, knees buckling.
But not for long.
Snarling, Menma drove a fist into the stranger's jaw, knocking him back.
He stumbled away, gasping, trying to steady himself.
But the illusions returned.
Now there were five Daynes—no, five Garricks—surrounding him, each one smirking with that same cold confidence.
The first rushed in.
Menma sliced through it—smoke.
Two more came from the sides, blades raised.
A third dropped from above.
Menma focused, eyes darting.
That's three fakes. Which one—
One last shadow lunged from the trees.
He slashed again—but that too vanished.
Just how many fakes are there-thought Menma to himself,when a laughing was heard nearby...
Dayne was crouched on a branch above, watching. "Long time no see...young Demon!"
Menma looked up just as he hurled a small glass vial.
It shattered on impact behind him—hissing violet gas rose from the dirt.
But Menma leapt clear just in time.
"Pain potion…" he muttered. "No witch would ever throw one of those just for fun…"
He stared up at the attacker.
The smug grin. The brutal style. The silence.
The illusions. The potion.
No. Freakin'. Way.
Menma's voice cracked.
"…This Creation. This fighting style…"
He shook his head in disbelief.
"It's just like in Lulusia."
His eyes widened, blood dripping from his nose.
"You… you're not Dayne."
His voice dropped to a growl.
"You're Garrick."