So here’s a fun little tip for all aspiring mages out there: don’t quadra-cast four advanced-element spells at once while setting an ancient magical ecosystem on fire and battling a demon who eats spirit energy for breakfast.

  You’ll end up like me—ft on your back, covered in soot, bleeding from the ears, and possibly legally dead for thirty seconds. Not even a cool kind of dead. Just the “limp body, no pulse, no magic” variety.

  They call it magic zero. Cute name. Sounds like a soda.

  In reality? It’s when you burn out every st drop of mana in your body, fry your core’s reserve, and your whole magical system just nopes out like it’s clocking off work after a triple shift. I couldn’t even blink mana through my veins. I was basically an extremely sarcastic sack of meat.

  So obviously, that was the moment Sylvaria chose to dramatically walk toward me.

  Her boots clicked across the scorched pace floor. Her hair, normally a neat silver cascade, was now streaked with ash and blood. And she had that expression she wore when she was pnning something terrifyingly elegant.

  “Lucien,” she said, voice all silken concern. “You did well. Let me—”

  And then, like a possessed jungle cat, Reille tackled me.

  “HE’S MINE!”

  I bcked out for a second just from the impact.

  One leg over my waist, one hand gripping my colr like she was about to suplex me back into the underworld, Reille gred up at Sylvaria like a feral raccoon with abandonment issues.

  “I won't let anyone snatch him! He’s barely alive and you're trying to get your cws on him!”

  I tried to say, “Please let me die in peace,” but it came out more like, “Gghgghhhnn.”

  Sylvaria blinked, visibly confused, then narrowed her eyes in that aristocratic “ah, so we’re doing this today” kind of way.

  “I was going to heal him.”

  “You have healers. I have priority rights. Girlfriend privilege. Go find another vegetable.”

  Honestly, if I had the mana to speak, I would’ve voted to be left with the demon.

  Royal Guests and Political FiresWhile I was getting reverse-straddled by my probably-insane-but-hot girlfriend, the elven delegation finally arrived.

  Led by Elros, their commander—who looked like someone carved from ancient marble and armed with a permanent grimace of “why are humans like this”—the alliance entered the pace cautiously.

  They stopped mid-step.

  Why? Because the scene looked like a Renaissance painting titled “The Day After Armageddon.”

  Sylvaria’s squad was scattered around the throne room like dropped action figures—burnt, bruised, and very dramatically unconscious. Veyna was clutching one of her summons like a therapy animal. Cassandra was wheezing and muttering math. Gram looked like he’d tried to drink a mana potion and set his beard on fire.

  Elros looked down at the wreckage, then up at Sylvaria—who stood perfectly poised, like none of this applied to her.

  “…You’re alive.”

  She smiled like she hadn’t just seen the face of literal eldritch evil.

  “Of course. It’s just a dungeon raid.”

  Behind her, a chunk of ceiling colpsed.

  The Elven Princess—newly freed, now dressed in flowing ceremonial robes that looked like they were weaved from living vines—stepped in, her expression caught between shock and horror.

  She looked around at the damage, then at me (still pinned under Reille), and finally at her burnt-to-hell capital pace.

  “This… was subtle?”

  Sylvaria answered with regal calm. “The demon was not open to diplomacy.”

  Reille added from atop me: “Lucien burned everything to save your spirit tree. So maybe write him a thank-you poem ter.”

  I croaked, “...Still waiting on my ‘Hero’ sash.”

  Elros coughed. “This pce needs political stabilizing.”

  Oh, now he shows up to run the country. Thanks, buddy.

  Days of Recovery, Mourning, and Bureaucratic NonsenseAfter the battle, time moved weird.

  There was mourning, for those who died in the fight—and there were many. Mostly elves, a few human escorts, some of Veyna’s earlier summons who got obliterated by dark magic (RIP Barkcw, you lived a good twelve minutes).

  There was also celebration, because apparently toppling a corrupt monarchy and killing a demon counts as a public retions win. Go figure.

  And because this is an actual world, not a fairytale, there were weeks of negotiations. The newly freed Elven Princess was crowned with flowers from the spirit groves. Magic contracts were signed. Trade agreements formed. Border routes opened.

  And somewhere in between all that?

  Squad 7 became heroes.

  Yeah. Us.

  The “exploded the dueling arena,” “set the training forest on fire,” “accidentally summoned a mimic in the cafeteria” squad.

  Everywhere we went in the capital, elves whispered.

  “Are those the ones who fought the demon?”

  “They’re crazy.”

  “I heard the mage quadruple-cast four elements at once!”

  “And then colpsed like a sack of potatoes!”

  And of course, Lucien the Mage (that’s me) got all the attention. I got gifts, invitations, offers of marriage from elves who clearly had no idea I was functionally incapable of intimacy without tripping over my own sarcasm.

  Sylvaria tried to act unaffected, but her smile every time someone bowed to Squad 7 could’ve sliced gss. She looked at us like we were art she made from scrap metal and the world was finally cpping.

  Hero Worship, But Make It UncomfortableOn day three, we had a feast in the honor of “the Chaos Seven.”

  Kill me.

  The nickname stuck.

  Even the Elven Queen used it in her speech. And I sat there, in robes someone shoved on me like a ceremonial curtain, sipping fermented flower wine, while people cpped and threw petals at us.

  I leaned over to Gram. “Can we go home yet?”

  He was chewing a root he said boosted mental crity. “I’ve already run tests on their soil. Their trees are talking. Not metaphorically. Like, psychically.”

  I blinked. “Are they insulting me?”

  He nodded. “A little.”

  Perfect.

  Wrapping It All Up (But Not Really)When we finally packed to leave—mission accomplished, monarchy toppled, alliance formed—I had one lingering thought:

  This wasn’t the end.

  Whatever that demon was—whatever y beneath the throne, in the forgotten levels—it wasn’t done with us. That power, that corruption, that darkness?

  We’d seen one mouth.

  And I’m pretty sure the thing had more than one head.

  But for now?

  We left like heroes. Wounded, traumatized, and carrying enough elven wine and magical gear to start a revolution if we wanted.

  I climbed aboard the carriage, Reille beside me, arms crossed possessively.

  “Next time you pass out,” she muttered, “I’m not sharing you.”

  “Next time,” I said, “I’m casting quintuple spells. And possibly dying.”

  “Idiot.”

  “Yeah,” I said, smirking. “But I’m your idiot.”

  The wheels rolled forward.

  And the ashes of the elven capital faded into the horizon.