4) Flugel... Is Natsuki Subaru you?

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{3rd Pov}

The entire place was dropped into an oppressive silence, the kind that made even the bravest hesitate to breathe.

Subaru had already been knocked unconscious to protect what little remained of his sanity, but Reinhardt faced a completely different kind of nightmare—every last shred of his overwhelming strength was gone.

Felix continued healing him, hands glowing steadily, even though his mind refused to fully digest the reality that Reinhardt van Astrea—the Sword Saint—had truly lost all of his abilities.

The broadcast showing Reinhardt’s defeat from the earlier attack kept replaying on the gigantic screen for the whole world to see, forcing every onlooker to confront a truth that felt too surreal to accept.

Far away in Vollachia, Cecilus sprang to his feet in absolute disbelief.

“Oi oi… are ya kidding me? Impossible! How the hell could he be taken down that easily!?” His voice lacked its usual carefree bravado.

Cecilus had personally fought Reinhardt, had clashed blades with the man who stood at the pinnacle of humanity.

He knew better than anyone just how overwhelming Reinhardt’s power was.

Reinhardt wasn’t simply strong—he was a walking natural disaster, an opponent so absurd that even Cecilus, with all his self-confidence, knew his own chances of victory were painfully small.

The playful, mocking grin Cecilus always wore had completely vanished as he stared at the image of the weakened, barely-standing Sword Saint.

‘Just what in the world is that mirror…? And who exactly is this so-called Supreme Narrator?’ Cecilus thought, a cold sweat forming beneath his skin despite his efforts to maintain his composure.

And it wasn’t just him.

Across the merchant nation of Kararagi, Halibel froze as he watched Reinhardt’s defeat on the screen, his usual laid-back demeanor cracking visibly.

Even he, who rarely showed strong emotion, could not hide his shock at seeing Reinhardt—of all people—fall so helplessly.

The entire world, even while unaware of the deeper truth that Reinhardt was the absolute strongest being in all of Od Laguna, still fully understood that he was at the very least one of the most overwhelmingly powerful individuals alive.

For someone like him to be defeated so abruptly, to lose every one of his abilities, and most horrifying of all—for the legendary Dragon Sword Reid to be shattered—sent waves of terror through every kingdom and nation.

The Wise Men, usually composed and unshakable, sprang from their chairs in total disbelief. Their hands trembled, their expressions contorted with shock and fear as they stared at the broadcast being projected across the massive screen.

“W–What… what was that just now?!” Bordeaux shouted, his voice cracking as he leaned closer to the image as if hoping it would change.

His teeth clenched with audible frustration.

“An illusion! This must be an illusion or a trick of some sort!” he barked, refusing to accept what he had witnessed.

“I absolutely refuse to believe that Reinhardt—that Reinhardt—can be defeated so easily!” he roared again, his voice filled with raw denial.

“Yes! There’s no way that monster could lose! It’s nonsense!” another Wise Man shouted, slamming his hand against the table in panic.

“And did everyone see that properly!? How in all of Od Laguna did the Dragon Sword get destroyed!?” a third voice cried, nearly shrill from confusion.

“That blade is supposed to be indestructible! There’s no way—no possible way—that it should even crack, let alone break!”

Their disbelief only grew stronger the more they replayed the scene in their minds, each of them struggling to wrap their heads around something the world had always believed to be utterly impossible.

Miklotov maintained a solemn, heavy expression as he finally spoke. “Gentlemen.”
His voice carried a commanding weight that immediately forced the entire room into silence, every Wise Man instinctively straightening at the authority behind it.

“I am afraid,” Miklotov continued, eyes narrowing with grim certainty, “that what we are witnessing is, in fact, the truth.”

A wave of protests erupted instantly.

“Blasphemy! Absolute blasphemy!” Bordeaux snapped, his disbelief reaching its peak.

“Miklotov, have you lost your mind?! Don’t let yourself be fooled! There is no possible way that what we just saw is real!” he shouted, as if the sheer force of his denial could rewrite reality.

The idea that the brain of Lugunica could accept something like this was unbearable to him.

Miklotov did not flinch.

Instead, he slowly reached into his coat and pulled out a small pocket-sized Mirror Metia, holding it up for everyone to see.

“If that’s truly what you believe,” he said levelly, “then allow me to ask you this: who do you think possesses the strength and influence to broadcast such an image across the entire country? Or perhaps… across the entire world?”

He tapped the Mirror Metia lightly.

“I have already confirmed it. This screen, this apparition—it has appeared throughout all of Lugunica. Every city, every town, every settlement is seeing the same thing.”

The room fell into an uneasy quiet.

“And tell me,” Miklotov pressed further, “do you believe the scene regarding Sir Reid was fabricated? Or the image of the Dragon God itself? Are you prepared to claim that those were false as well?”

No one answered.

The silence was suffocating.

“H-How can such a power exist…?” one of the Wise Men finally muttered, his voice cracking as he pointed with trembling fingers toward the towering screen.

“Something like this… it must be the work of a Witch!”

“Whether this is the work of a Witch, the Witch Cult, or some other force entirely is irrelevant for the moment,” Miklotov replied sharply.

His tone was cold and decisive now.

“What matters is that we must prepare the nation. If that thing—whatever it is—turns out to be our enemy, we cannot afford to be caught unprepared.”

He adjusted his glasses before adding, “Additionally, someone must continue monitoring the screen. I believe that everything it has shown up until now holds significant importance, and what it reveals next could be even more critical.”

“You are… correct,” Bordeaux admitted reluctantly, finally regaining a fraction of his composure.

“We need to make immediate arrangements.”

With that, the Wise Men began issuing rapid orders to the Commander of the Royal Knights, instructing him to ready the nation for an emergency unlike anything they had ever anticipated

Meanwhile, back in Priestella, Reinhardt—who had only just finished receiving healing—struggled even to remain standing, let alone walk properly.

His steps were shaky, unstable, and painfully slow, as if his legs no longer remembered how to support his own weight.

“The hell’s going on here?! Why does it look like he’s still not healed yet?!” Felt shouted, her eyes darting between Reinhardt and the cat-eared femboy healer, completely bewildered by the sight of the Sword Saint barely managing to take a single step.

“I-I healed him already, nyah!” Felix insisted, raising both hands defensively.

Even he looked confused and troubled, the uncertainty visible in the flick of his tail.

“I swear I finished the treatment properly, nyah! His wounds are closed, and his mana flow should be stable, but—nyah—something still isn’t right!”

Reinhardt immediately shook his head.

“Please… do not blame Sir Felix. None of this is his fault,” he said, his voice weak but sincere.

“It’s simply… I feel overwhelmingly weak now. My body, my mana, my everything… it all feels like it’s been drained completely.”

Everyone present froze, the weight of his statement hitting like a physical blow.

“D-DAMN IT!” Heinkel suddenly roared, unable to contain his frustration any longer.

“What kind of absolute bullshit is this?! You’re telling me this guy—this monster of a son—lost all his powers in an instant?! Just because he attacked that stupid mirror, window, screen, whatever the hell that thing is supposed to be?!”

Heinkel stomped forward, fury radiating off him in waves.

His face twisted in anger, he pointed directly at Reinhardt as though about to unload every insult he had stored up for years.

He opened his mouth, breath drawn in to scream—

But then everything stopped.

[I see you’ve all witnessed the consequences of attacking the screen.]

A calm yet overwhelming voice echoed directly into their minds, bypassing their ears entirely and vibrating deep in their skulls.

Everyone instinctively jerked their heads upward, eyes widening in fear and disbelief.

Floating above them, projected across the sky, was the unmistakable presence of the Supreme Narrator.

“Just who the hell are you supposed to be?!” Heinkel finally screamed, his voice cracking with anger and disbelief.

As if responding directly to his rage, the utterly expressionless face of the Supreme Narrator shifted on the sky-screen, its cold gaze lowering until it was pointed straight at Heinkel below.

Across every region, in every nation where the mysterious screens had appeared, the display abruptly split into two separate panels.

One side showed the five camps gathered in Priestella with perfect clarity, focusing specifically on Heinkel glaring upward with veins bulging on his forehead.

The other panel showed the Supreme Narrator’s enormous face, its emotionless expression somehow making the atmosphere even more suffocating.

[I have already given my introduction… I am the narrator of your story. Nothing more, nothing less.]

The answer came without hesitation, a casual declaration that only made the situation even more surreal.

Many who heard it felt chills run down their spines, the meaning settling into their thoughts far slower than the words themselves.

“Tch, peasant,” Priscilla scoffed, stepping forward with her characteristic arrogance.

She flipped her fan open, the motion sharp and disdainful as she glared at the sky.

“No ordinary peasant could possibly defeat the Sword Saint so effortlessly, let alone strip him of every Divine Protection and ability he possesses. Your claim is insulting. If you refuse to reveal your true identity, then prepare yourself—my Divine self shall bring judgment upon you.”

For a moment, the world held its breath in anticipation of how the Supreme Narrator would respond to such open provocation.

[I do not answer the questions of a pig.]

The reply dropped like a hammer.

Hundreds of thousands watching across various cities and villages collectively gasped, stunned by the unrestrained insult directed at Priscilla Barielle of all people.

Some were too shocked to even speak.

Others instinctively stepped away from their own screens, as if fearing the wrath she was about to unleash.

A thick vein appeared on Priscilla’s temple, her eye twitching violently.

Her entire expression darkened with barely contained fury, the humiliation of being insulted so directly and publicly burning through whatever composure she usually held.

Priscilla’s patience finally snapped, and without a moment of hesitation she summoned the Yang Sword, its blazing radiance igniting in her hand as if responding to her fury itself.

The intense heat rolling off the blade made several nearby people instinctively flinch back.

She raised her arm, clearly preparing to cut through the sky and strike at the screen despite everything they had just witnessed happen to Reinhardt.

“Princess! Princess, hold on! Please stop! Did you not see what he did to the Sword Saint boy?!” Al’s panicked voice rang out as he rushed from behind her, practically throwing himself toward her to stop what would easily be the single stupidest decision of her life.

“Silence, Alderban! Do not attempt to restrain me unless you wish for an early death!” Priscilla snapped, her crimson eyes burning with wrath.

Her voice dripped with sheer indignation, offended far beyond reason.

“That filthy faceless creature dared to refer to my Divine self as a pig. Such insolence must be answered.”

Al placed a hand on the top of his helmet, as if trying to soothe the headache rapidly building beneath it.

He stared at her with a deadpan expression that was barely masking complete terror.

In his mind, he was already calculating how many millions of times he would need to die and revive just to keep her from charging headfirst into annihilation.

‘Great. Just great,’ Al groaned internally.

‘How many times am I gonna have to throw myself onto the chopping block today? Thank the gods Sensei trained me specifically for suicidal situations like this…’

Even if he had never been able to accomplish the purpose for which he originally existed, at the very least Al prided himself on two things: knowing how to utilize his strange abilities, and being thoroughly used to dying.

Because when it came to serving Priscilla Barielle, both were absolute requirements.

All of a sudden, Emilia stepped forward with uncharacteristic sharpness in her eyes, her silver hair swaying as she glared directly at the massive screen above.

“What did you do to Subaru?!” she demanded, her voice trembling not with fear but with anger.

“Why was he in so much pain? Why did he collapse like that? Answer me right now!”

Otto, who had been trying his absolute hardest to quietly piece together some kind of safe strategy, immediately slapped a hand over his face.

The shockingly reckless confidence of the women in his camp was starting to feel like a curse rather than a blessing.

Emilia confronting a being that had just stripped Reinhardt of every ability he possessed felt like watching a kitten challenge a hurricane.

And just when he thought the situation couldn’t get any worse—

“Yeah! Oi! Better spit out what ya did to the cap’n or I’ll pound ya flat!” Garfiel roared, baring his teeth and cracking his knuckles with enough force that the sound echoed through the plaza.

Otto’s soul nearly left his body on the spot.

He stared at them—at Emilia blazing with emotion, at Garfiel ready to throw himself into battle without a second thought, at Priscilla itching for bloodshed somewhere behind him—and wondered, not for the first time, if his camp had any trace of basic self-preservation.

‘Do these people even understand what suicidal danger looks like?!’ Otto screamed internally.

‘We literally just watched Reinhardt—Reinhardt—get his entire existence flattened like a bread! And they’re still shouting threats?! I need a vacation… or a coffin.’

It was enough to make Otto seriously consider fainting just to remove himself from the insanity unfolding around him.

[What I did?] the Supreme Narrator repeated, his voice curling into a low, echoing chuckle that reverberated through every mind listening.

Slowly, deliberately, the cosmic face on the screen shifted its attention downward, its presence pressing on them like an unseen weight.

[I have done absolutely nothing to Natsuki Subaru. His current state is not the result of my interference—but the direct consequence of your own actions. You are the ones who reduced his humanity, shattered his self-pride, and treated his very life as a disposable tool for your personal happiness.]

“Im–Impossible!” Emilia blurted out, her voice cracking as she shook her head wildly.

“I would never hurt Subaru! Never! I’ve never once even thought of doing something that horrible!”

The disbelief and panic lacing her tone made it clear she wasn’t just arguing—she was desperately trying to deny even the idea that she could be responsible.

“Yes!” Garfiel growled immediately after, stepping forward with his claws half-formed and eyes blazing.

“I might’ve fought with the cap’n once or twice, but I’d never do somethin’ that’d break him like that! You’re full o’ crap if ya think any of us would!”

“To claim that Natsuki Subaru’s allies are the ones who inflicted harm on him…” Anastasia finally spoke, breaking her long silence.

She stepped forward, fan in hand, her eyes sharp despite her polite tone.

“Isn’t that a little too convenient? Your accusations seem extremely bold for someone who hasn’t provided a shred of evidence. Surely, your lies can’t be that transparent?”

While the others reacted with denial or anger, Anastasia’s voice carried a calculating edge.

She understood that unlike Reinhardt’s failed assault, words might actually open a crack in this being’s armor.

If the entity was willing to talk, then she would squeeze every drop of information out of him.

The Supreme Narrator’s expression—if the shifting cosmic mist could even be called an expression—seemed to distort into something resembling a smile.

Ripples formed across the swirling stars that made up its face, as though amused by their defiance, their confusion, or perhaps their refusal to accept the truth laid before them.

[Oh? Still clinging to denial, are you? How entertaining.]

[The upcoming broadcast will give you the answer] the Supreme Narrator declared, dismissing all their outrage and demands as though they were little more than background noise—insignificant, trivial, utterly beneath his concern.

“Do not ignore me, peasant!” Priscilla roared, her fury exploding like a tempest. Without hesitation, she hurled her Yang Sword like a spear.

The moment it left her hand, the blade ripped through the air with such force that a deafening sonic boom echoed across Priestella.

The weapon shot toward the sky like a golden lightning bolt, slamming into the colossal screen with divine force—

—only to bounce off it harmlessly.

The impact didn’t even cause a flicker, a ripple, a crack, or anything.

The sword simply clattered back down, embedding itself into the stone ground with an anticlimactic thud.

The screen remained perfectly pristine, unbothered, unmarked, and unmoved—as if the attack hadn’t even registered.

The Supreme Narrator didn’t respond with words.

Instead, he simply tilted his cosmic head slightly, as if amused… entertained by her tantrum.

A moment later, the giant screen abruptly went pitch-black, plunging the entire plaza into an uncomfortable silence.

Then a cold, mechanical voice echoed:

[The teaser scene of Natsuki Subaru and the Seven Witches in the Castle of Dreams will begin in three minutes.]

The announcement spread through the air like a shockwave, and once again the world fell dead silent.

“Natsuki Subaru… and the Seven Witches?” Anastasia murmured, unable to keep the bewildered twitch off her lips.

Her usually composed expression strained for a moment, as if her brain needed extra time to process what she had just heard.

Even she, with all her business expertise and calm logic, couldn’t pretend that the phrase made any kind of ordinary sense.

No one answered her.

No one argued.

No one even looked at the sky anymore.

The mention of the Seven Witches was enough to instantly rip away all attention from the Supreme Narrator’s insults and provocations.

The entire atmosphere shifted, becoming denser and more suffocating, as though even breathing required effort.

“T-This doesn’t makes any sense, I suppose!” Beatrice finally blurted out, her voice trembling despite her attempt to maintain composure.

She clutched Subaru’s unconscious body tightly, refusing to loosen her grip even a little.

Unlike the others, she had remained silent on purpose—because she knew something no one else fully understood.

Subaru hadn’t been attacked.

He had broken.

A mental collapse triggered by something only he could see or feel.

But the question that gnawed at her, that made her heart tighten with dread, was why.

Why had Subaru reacted like that?

Why did those images paralyze him with such terror?

And why… why did the Supreme Narrator imply that the answer would be revealed soon?

Beatrice bit her lip as her mind churned, unable to shake the ominous feeling creeping through her.

Something far more terrifying than anything they had imagined was about to be exposed.

“S-Subaru did say that he met the witches, but—” Beatrice began, only for her voice to suddenly falter.

Her entire body stiffened the moment her thoughts connected to the meaning behind the phrase seven witches.

Her expression froze, her pupils trembling as the realization hit her harder than she expected.

“S-Subaru met the Witch of Envy?” Otto asked, his usually composed demeanor crumbling instantly.

His face turned pale as paper, his words spilling out in disbelief.

To him, the idea alone felt like a story meant to terrify children.

“How… how is that even something we’re supposed to accept?”

“Impossible! Absolutely impossible nya!” Felix yelled, ears twitching with agitation.

His reaction was immediate and loud, as though denial itself was his only defense.

“How could anyone meet the Witch of Envy and still be breathing afterward?! That’s not something people survive nya!”

Across the kingdom, far from the chaos of the camps, the remaining Witch Cult members were gathered in a dim, cracked hall, their attention locked on the floating screen.

Their twisted silhouettes cast bizarre shadows as the information sank in.

“That meatbag met the Witch of Envy?” Capella murmured, her lips curling into something between curiosity and perversion.

She leaned slightly closer to the display, as though sniffing out some new entertainment.

“How interesting… truly interesting. I’m quite curious to know what our oh-so-beloved Witch is like now… and more importantly, why she didn’t shred that meatbag into paste.”

“This is impressive, tsu~” Lye Batenkaitos crooned, his eyes glimmering with chaotic enthusiasm.

“I deeply regret not eating his memories when I had the chance~tsu,” Roy Alphard said, clicking his tongue lightly as if genuinely frustrated by his missed opportunity.

While the other Sin Archbishops indulged in mocking laughter, curiosity, or mindless delight, their leader—wrapping the silence around herself like a cloak—watched the screen without expression.

Her face was still, her posture rigid, eyes reflecting nothing but calculation.

After several seconds of unbroken tension, she finally spoke.

“Flugel…” she whispered, her gaze narrowed to a razor’s edge.

“Is Natsuki Subaru… you?”

The screen continued its display, but her words hung in the air heavier than any revelation so far.

To be continued...