The morning sun crept over the horizon, bathing the assembled heroes in a warm, determined glow. They stood at the threshold of the next leg of their journey, each face revealing scars of past battles and an unyielding resolve forged from personal loss. In that quiet moment, the weight of their mission—fraught with danger and sacrifice—seemed almost palpable.

  Noah gripped his sword tightly and held it aloft, its gleaming blade catching the first light of day. “Today marks the beginning of our greatest challenge. Together, we will march into her domain and slay the Black Witch!” His voice rang out with steadfast conviction.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you, Noah. I know we can do this,” Ava said, raising her dagger in unison with his sword, her eyes locked on his with unwavering faith.

  “No mercy. The Witch shall fall,” Cyrus declared, conjuring a jagged ice blade that shimmered coldly as frost curled along its edge.

  “I’ll see this through. For all of us,” Adam added, lifting his spear, Cú Chulainn, its mythic aura pulsating faintly as if echoing his resolve.

  “I will make sure we can save Jasper,” Lucy announced, raising her greatsword with a determined gleam.

  “How charming,” Lux chimed in with a smirk, leaning casually against a wall. “All you need now is a name for your merry little band of heroes.”

  Cyrus shot him a glare. “Annoying god. Don’t mock us, especially if you’re not going to contribute.”

  Lux shrugged nonchalantly. “I already did my part. I scouted the Black Witch’s barrier last night. Turns out, it’s more than just Sicil-proof—it’s locked down against anyone who’s been alive since the first apocalypse. A pity for me, but it also means the Crows’ second and third commanders can’t enter either. Consider that a blessing.”

  “Fine,” Cyrus retorted, turning back to the group. “We didn’t need you anyway.”

  Trying to ease the tension, Noah glanced at his companions with a sheepish grin. “If we were to name our adventuring party, what should we call ourselves?”

  Cyrus raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re seriously thinking about this now?”

  Lux chuckled. “Oh, let the boy dream. Every legendary group needs a name—it’s tradition.”

  Noah stepped into the center of the circle, pausing as if weighed by Lux’s suggestion. “Well, Noah, you’re our leader. Go ahead and give this party a name,” Cyrus urged with a sly smirk.

  Noah furrowed his brow in exaggerated concentration, as if deciphering the mysteries of the universe itself. Finally, with a dramatic snap of his fingers, he proclaimed, “Alright! From this moment onward, we shall be known as The Fools’ Tea Party! That shall be our name!” He puffed out his chest in mock grandeur.

  A beat of silence was followed by Lux’s raucous laughter. “What kind of name is that?” he cackled, nearly doubling over.

  “Yeah, Noah,” Ava giggled, struggling to keep her composure. “Your naming sense is… something else.”

  Noah crossed his arms, cheeks reddening defensively. “It’s a play on the Witches’ Tea Party, you know—the legendary group of witches from the first apocalypse. After all, we’re about to face a witch!”

  Lux raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “The Witches’ Tea Party, huh? I remember them. But why, fools?”

  Noah grinned, his eyes twinkling with self-aware humor. “How else would you describe a group of idiots marching off to raid one of the strongest beings on the continent?”

  Adam sighed in resigned agreement. “He’s got a point. There’s no better description than fools.”

  Lucy added thoughtfully, “The name may sound self-deprecating, but the Fool in tarot symbolizes boundless potential and the courage to begin an uncertain journey. It fits us.”

  Cyrus chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Fine. The Fools’ Tea Party it is. Ridiculous, yet oddly fitting.”

  Noah’s grin widened as he raised his sword high. “Then it’s settled! From this day forward, The Fools’ Tea Party will take on any challenge, no matter how impossible!”

  A new voice interrupted, dry and laced with disapproval. “I can’t believe I entrusted my daughter to an idiot like you,” Orist said, stepping into the room.

  “Orist!” Noah exclaimed, startled by the older man’s sudden appearance.

  Ava groaned. “Dad, you couldn’t wait to embarrass him later?”

  “I came to see you all off,” Orist admitted, his gaze softening. “I’d join you, but with the influx of refugees, someone has to stay behind to keep things in order. Just try not to die out there, you fools.”

  “Thanks, Orist,” Noah said, giving him a determined nod. “We’ll make it back. I promise.”

  Orist’s expression grew stern. “Promises are only as good as the actions that follow them. Go prove that your name isn't entirely true.”

  The morning sun filtered through Alfheim’s vibrant forest, a deceptive beauty masking lurking threats. At the forest’s edge, the Fools’ Tea Party stood ready, determination etched on their faces.

  “Let us embark,” Noah declared, lifting his sword so it caught the morning light. “We will rid the world of the Black Witch and any members of the Crows who dare to stand in our way.”

  They pressed forward. Almost immediately, monsters appeared: oozing slimes and goblins baring crude weapons. The air felt heavier with each step, as though the forest itself opposed their advance.

  “Stay sharp! Don’t let them overwhelm us!” Noah commanded.

  He charged forward, striking down the slimes with swift precision. Every time an ally was hurt, a shadowy aura transferred their wounds to him—healing them while he pressed on.

  Cyrus, slightly behind, lifted his hand. “Freeze.” Ice shards rained down, halting goblins mid-scream for the others to finish off. Frosted ground glinted under his control, turning the battlefield into his domain.

  Ava vanished and reappeared among her foes. “They never even see me coming,” she murmured, dispatching goblins and slimes before they could react.

  Lucy summoned vines that coiled around opponents, her greatsword cutting them down with measured strikes. “Don’t let your guard down. The forest will only grow more hostile as we approach her territory.”

  Adam hurled Cú Chulainn with unerring accuracy, each throw finding its mark before the spear returned to his grip. “Keep moving forward. We can’t afford to linger.”

  Though the monsters multiplied, the Fools’ Tea Party carved through them, teamwork and skill clearing a steady path. After a brief pause to catch their breath, Noah surveyed his companions and nodded. “We’re close. Stay focused. The Black Witch’s territory is just ahead.”

  The forest darkened as they drew nearer to their destination, its once-vibrant hues fading into muted grays. A heavy stillness fell over the group, punctuated only by distant, haunting calls of unseen creatures and the faint, acrid scent of decay that filled the air.

  As they entered a clearing, a grim sight met their eyes. Corpses—remnants of the Church of the God of Hope’s inquisition—were scattered around like broken dolls. Their battered armor and mangled bodies conveyed the brutality of recent battles. In stark contrast to the carnage, a solitary figure sat on a weathered tree stump.

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  Her hair was long and unkempt, as dark as the shadows clinging to the landscape. Scars marred her pale arms, and two jagged marks twisted her face into a perpetual, macabre smile. Her bright orange eyes shone with a disturbing mix of amusement and bloodlust as she fixed her gaze on the approaching group.

  The woman rose gracefully, her cloak billowing as if stirred by an unseen force. A faint metallic clink drew attention to the heavy handcuffs binding her wrists, and beside her, a massive greatsword—its blade stained with dried blood—lay embedded in the ground like a slumbering predator. A tattoo of two interlocked swords marked her forearm, a sinister emblem that caught Cyrus’s eye; his sharp intake of breath sliced through the tense silence.

  “Noah, get back,” Cyrus hissed, stepping protectively forward. His usually steady voice quivered with genuine fear.

  Before Noah could speak, the woman tilted her head and smiled wider, her scars deepening. “Hello there,” she said, her tone light and almost cheerful. “Are you my new friends?”

  In an instant, she moved from the stump to stand before Cyrus, her sudden advance a blur. The oppressive aura around her thickened the air; Cyrus’s pupils dilated as terror pinned him to the spot. Lucy and Adam stepped back instinctively, their faces paling at the sight—they recognized her. They knew exactly what she was capable of.

  Noah, still uncomprehending, tightened his grip on his sword. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  The woman smiled at him, studying his face with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Oh, I like you better,” she said, her voice laced with mockery. “You’re not on the verge of tears, at least. That’s refreshing.”

  Niamh’s unsettling smile deepened, the scars on her face twisting further as she introduced herself. “I’m Niamh,” she said. “Some call me the Greatsword Monarch, others prefer the Slaughter Witch. Both work, depending on how you'd like your story to end.”

  Noah’s breath caught. “Monarch?” he echoed. “You’re one of the Martial Art Kings?”

  A flicker of satisfaction crossed her face at his realization. “So you’ve heard of me. How flattering,” she replied, resting a bound hand on the hilt of her greatsword.

  Noah’s mind raced with fragments of his father’s stories. The Martial Art Kings were living apostles of the God of Combat—a force once known as the Fourth Apocalypse. Sealed long ago within an iron maiden, his influence endured. By sheer will, he had chosen seven individuals—masters of their weapons—each embodying an aspect of his might: the Sword, the Spear, the Greatsword, the Fist, the Bow, the Axe, and the Shield.

  This was no ordinary appointment. While most gods could only sustain three apostles without weakening themselves, even in confinement the God of Combat maintained seven—a testament to his unmatched power. His selection was cold and ruthless, based solely on martial prowess, devoid of any moral consideration.

  Among the seven apostles, the Greatsword Monarch stood apart. Her legendary exploits eclipsed those of her peers, and unlike the others, she bore a second title—Witch.

  “Witches…” Noah murmured, his stomach sinking as the weight of her reputation settled over him. The title of Witch—dating back to the First Apocalypse—was reserved for women who could unleash catastrophic devastation. Today, only two carried that dreaded designation: the Black Witch and the Slaughter Witch.

  Niamh’s eyes gleamed at his unease. “Ah, so you’ve pieced it together,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “The stories probably didn’t do me justice. But I assure you, they didn’t exaggerate.”

  Cyrus clenched his fists and forced himself to speak. “You… You killed thousands. Entire armies fell to you. Why are you here? What do you want?”

  Niamh tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Want? Oh, I’m just passing through,” she replied casually, then her grin widened into something far more predatory. “But I must admit, it’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of entertaining guests.”

  Her bound hands shifted; the chains on her cuffs clinked ominously. Even restrained, her presence dominated the clearing, an oppressive aura of malice and bloodlust emanating from her every pore.

  Noah tightened his grip on his sword and stepped forward despite the fear clawing at him. “We didn’t come here to fight you,” he said, his voice steady though his knuckles were white. “We’re here for the Black Witch. If you’re not involved—”

  Before he could finish, Niamh laughed—a sharp, chilling sound echoing in the stillness. “Oh, my dear little hero,” she interrupted, locking her eyes on his. “You don’t understand, do you? You don’t get to decide who you fight. Not here.”

  “If you want to reach the Black Witch,” she added in a deadly whisper, “you’ll have to survive me first.”

  Noah’s voice trembled as he took a step forward, desperation edging his tone. “Why are you doing this? Why cause so much pain? What could possibly drive you to destroy so freely?”

  Niamh tilted her head slightly, her unsettling grin widening. Her orange eyes glowed with predatory amusement as if she relished the question. “Why?” she repeated mockingly. “Why do you eat every day? Why do you sleep each night? Why do you protect those you love? Why do you even bother to keep breathing, little hero?”

  Her voice dropped, each word slicing deeper. “Your question is as meaningless as mine. I do what I do because it’s who I am—no grand purpose, no higher calling. I kill because it is instinct. Because it’s life.” She spread her arms, and the chains rattled like a death knell. “And in life, there’s no escape from death. Especially not for you.”

  Before anyone could react, she vanished. In the next heartbeat, she reappeared in front of Lucy.

  “Fast—!” Lucy started, but her words turned into a cry of pain. Blood spattered the ground as she crumpled to her knees, her legs torn as if pierced by invisible blades. Niamh hadn’t drawn her sword. She hadn’t even moved her hands.

  “Interesting,” Niamh mused, circling Lucy like a predator sizing up its prey. “You wield a greatsword, too. But I doubt you’ll make me use mine. You’re not worth it.”

  Lucy gritted her teeth and clutched her searing legs. “Bastard,” she hissed, forcing herself to stand despite the agony.

  The ground beneath Niamh erupted as massive vines burst forth, wrapping around her limbs. “You’ll regret underestimating me!” Lucy growled, her ability surging with fury.

  “Not bad,” Niamh said, barely glancing at the restraining plants. “But not good enough.”

  Before Lucy could respond, Adam and Cyrus joined the attack. Adam hurled his crimson spear toward Niamh’s heart, while Cyrus unleashed a barrage of razor-sharp ice shards. For a split second, it seemed the combined assault might succeed.

  Then everything fell apart.

  In a flash—too swift to track—the vines were shredded, the ice shattered into harmless fragments, and Adam’s spear splintered mid-air. Adam staggered, coughing as he clutched his chest; blood dripped from his lips as he dropped to one knee.

  “Pathetic,” Niamh sneered, landing gracefully. “You’ve already lost your weapon. And you?” Her gaze turned to Cyrus, whose ice shards were now mere glimmers in the wind. “You think a little frost can stop me? Cute.”

  Her oppressive presence weighed down the air, freezing the group in its tracks under the force of her killing intent.

  Noah stepped forward, gripping his sword tightly, his heart pounding. “We’re not done yet,” he said, his voice trembling but resolute.

  Niamh’s eyes locked onto him, curiosity mixed with menace. “Oh? And what will you do, little hero? Will you save them? Will you stop me?”

  Noah raised his blade, determination burning despite his fear. “I’ll try,” he declared.

  Niamh tilted her head, her unsettling smile widening. “How cute. You’re not really afraid of me, are you?” Her voice dripped cruel amusement. “No, no… you’re terrified of something else. You’re afraid I’ll hurt her.” She gestured toward Ava, whose trembling form stood frozen behind Noah. “If she died… what would you do, little hero?”

  “I won’t let that happen,” Noah said firmly, though his voice quavered. Drawing on deep reserves, he absorbed the pain and fear radiating from his allies. Dark energy coiled around him, seeping into his sword until the blade glowed with a shadowy aura.

  With a roar, Noah brought his sword down in a devastating slash, crackling with energy as it cut through the air toward Niamh.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  In a single, fluid motion, Niamh’s fingers wrapped around the blade, stopping it cold. The impact sent shockwaves through the ground, yet she remained unfazed. “Adorable,” she whispered. “I like you, little hero.”

  Before Noah could react, an intense pain exploded in his stomach. In an instant, her fist had plunged into his abdomen, sending him crumpling to his knees.

  “You have potential,” Niamh said, looming over him as he gasped for air. She crouched, gripping his chin with an iron fist, forcing him to meet her gleaming, predatory eyes. “You could be even better. I’ll let you live, little hero, but only on three conditions.”

  Noah winced but held her gaze. “What… What are the conditions?”

  Her grip tightened as she leaned in, her breath warm and menacing. “Condition one: Obtain a sword-based regalia. If you’re not wielding a proper weapon the next time we meet, I’ll kill you. Condition two: Learn swordsmanship—enough to keep me entertained, at the very least. And condition three…” She smirked, laced with sadistic glee. “Land a hit on me. Just one.”

  Noah’s chest tightened as he glanced toward Ava, whose tear-filled eyes pleaded silently. Niamh continued, “If you fail, little hero… if you don’t fulfill these conditions the next time we meet, I’ll kill your girlfriend first. And I’ll make you watch every second of it before I finish you off.”

  The world seemed to freeze as her words sank in. Noah clenched his fists, forcing himself to meet her piercing gaze. “I’ll do it,” he said through gritted teeth. “No matter what, I’ll get stronger. I’ll meet your conditions.”

  “Good doggie,” Niamh cooed mockingly, patting his head as though he were a child. “I look forward to our next encounter.”

  Then, in the blink of an eye, she vanished. The oppressive aura dissipated, leaving an eerie stillness behind.

  Almost immediately, the group’s injuries began to heal—Adam, who had been pale and coughing blood, sat up with a groan; Lucy tested her legs, now free of pain; and Cyrus shakily summoned a shard of ice to confirm his powers.

  “What… just happened?” Ava whispered, voice trembling.

  Noah remained silent, staring at the spot where Niamh had stood. The weight of her conditions bore down on him like an iron chain, yet his resolve burned brighter.

  “I’ll do it,” he repeated softly, gripping his sword tightly. “No matter what.”