Re:Birth: A Slow Burn LitRPG Mage Regressor

Adom stared at his friends.

They'd come to help him. And this was the result.

His fingers twitched as he began to weave an illusion spell. If he could create a distraction, maybe the barrier would—

A cool, bark-textured hand settled on his shoulder. "Do not," the silver-birch dryad said quietly.

The woman outside smiled. "A wise decision," she said. "You are at a stage in your development, Adom Sylla, where you cannot best me in a battle of magic."

Adom froze. His true name. Not just "Adom," but his full name—Adom Sylla. He glanced at his friends, then at the dryads, then back to the woman who'd spoken a name he'd told no one in this realm.

"Do not look so alarmed," the woman said, her smile widening slightly. "I knew of you long before you were born. And your true name's knowledge will not be of much help to me, knowing you have mental defenses that dear Law prepared you for by now."

Adom didn't respond with shock this time.

Instead, pieces began clicking into place. In a world where a few individuals were talented enough to look into the future and single out one individual—to track the path they would take—it made sense that she might have divination powers. It made sense that, just like Law, she had peered into the future. It made sense that she might have anticipated this moment as well.

During the eight months following the Crown Prince's fall, Adom had attempted to understand and master divination. It had been frustrating, bordering on humiliating.

Because among all the paths of magic, divination was the most unfair.

See, other paths—runecology, alchemy, battle magic, druidism, and so on—could be difficult, sure, but they were democratic in their difficulty.

Adom, for instance, had always been adept with runes, which is why he'd chosen that path in his first life. But even for those not born with innate talent, progress was possible through hard work. Magic was the kind of discipline where dedicating yourself and understanding the logic would eventually yield results.

Until you came to divination.

There was a reason it was the least pursued path among mages. By actual estimate, more than 90% of those who chose divination were mediocre at best. The remaining 10% could hardly see more than two or three days ahead, with 60% accuracy at most.

Most divination mages ended up predicting weather for farms or working for military operations to anticipate enemy movements in the immediate future. It was a path that relied almost entirely on innate talent, with minimal room for improvement through effort alone.

And Law, it seemed, had been the most talented divinator to ever walk the earth—capable of seeing thousands of years after his own time. The concept was mind-boggling.

The further you looked into the future, the more variables came into play. Even a single change could lower the probability of success for the path you wanted to see unfold. A few seconds of future vision could branch into hundreds of new possibilities—so imagine thousands of years.

All this to say: divinators with real talent were exceedingly rare.

If this woman knew about him with such specificity, either Law had told her directly (unlikely), or she had seen it herself—placing her among the very few people who could look that far ahead with reliability.

"Let us talk," the woman said again, her black eyes never leaving his face. "Just talk, Adom. That's all I want."

"What do you want to discuss?" Adom asked, his voice remarkably steady despite everything.

The woman tilted her head slightly. "The obvious, of course. I'd like to release your friends."

"In exchange for me, your daughter, and the egg?" Adom shifted his weight, keeping the phoenix egg close to his chest.

"Of course." She spread her hands in a gesture that might have seemed reasonable if not for the predatory gleam in her eyes. "I would like to have you by my side, Adom. To study you. To monitor your growth and... make it mine."

She was... remarkably honest.

Her gaze shifted to Cyrel, who stiffened visibly.

"As for you, daughter," the woman continued, "I miss you. Without you, I cannot be complete." The words were tender. "And the egg is mine by right of domain. Everything in this realm belongs to me."

Bob shifted in his chains, wincing as he put weight on his injured ankle. "Laddie," he called out, "don't do it. You need to get away."

Zara lifted her chin despite the bruise blooming across her cheek. "Many people sacrificed a lot to make this chain of events happen—to get you here. Don't let it go to waste. Go." Her eyes burned with intensity. "This is bigger than us."

"Aye," Thorgen agreed, nodding vigorously. His stump of an arm twitched as if he'd forgotten it was no longer whole.

Even Artun managed a crooked smile. "You're worth more than us, kid." His voice was deeper than usual, rough from what might have been screaming. "Just go."

The witch's fingers flicked almost casually. Instantly, all four prisoners' mouths sealed shut—not with gags or physical restraints, but as if their lips had simply fused together. They struggled against the magic, eyes wide with panic.

"Silence," the woman said, never taking her eyes off Adom. Her smile remained perfectly in place, as if she'd merely quieted children at a dinner table.

She adjusted the drape of her robe. "Your companions are understandably emotional, but this is a matter for cooler heads." She gestured toward the shimmering barrier between them. "I am offering a fair exchange. Their lives for your cooperation."

Cyrel's mental voice pushed into Adom's consciousness, urgent and sharp. "Do not go with her."

The phoenix egg pulsed warmly against Adom's palm, its rhythm strangely similar to a heartbeat.

The woman's eyes reflected nothing. "I can wait all night, Adom. Your friends, however..." She glanced pointedly at Throgen's poorly bandaged stump. "I fear their condition may deteriorate."

"Release one of them now," Adom said, "as a show of good faith."

The woman laughed. "How charmingly direct. But that is not how negotiations work in my realm." She stroked the edge of the barrier with her fingertips. "I wonder how long these ancient protections will hold? They've already begun to crack."

As if on cue, a thin fracture appeared in the stone ceiling, releasing a sprinkle of dust.

"I am being incredibly generous," the woman continued. "Most who defy me never receive an offer at all." Her smile did not reach her eyes. "Just their consequences."

The silver-birch dryad stepped forward. "You have no power in this place," she said, her voice gaining strength with each word. "As long as we remain in this cave, the old law we—"

"Spare me the lecture, Daphne," the witch interrupted, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features. "I was there when the old law was written." She brushed an imaginary speck from her sleeve, composure returning instantly. "I held the quill."

She returned her attention to Adom. "I know you could flee through your little portal. I also know you would never abandon your friends." She gestured toward the prisoners. "Why waste precious time? Come out, and I will release them. They can go their way, and we can go ours."

The prisoners thrashed against their magical bindings, muffled sounds escaping from their sealed lips. Thorgen's eyes bulged with effort as he tried to speak through his fused mouth. Zara shook her head frantically, hair whipping around her face. Bob was trying to mime something with his bound hands and Artun just stared at Adom with eyes that clearly said: "Don't be an idiot."

The witch sighed. "Lessers are so predictably loyal. It is both their most admirable and most exploitable quality." She regarded her nails. "I wonder which quality will prevail tonight?"

"When faced with two impossible choices," the witch mused, "most choose the one that postpones pain." She turned to the creatures flanking the path. "Bring the leprechaun forward."

Out of nowhere, a shadow in human form appeared and dragged a curved blade that gleamed with an unnatural purple sheen. The same color as Visariel's magic.

"Perhaps a demonstration of intent would help clarify matters," she said, her voice cool and measured.

A centaur grabbed Bob by the hair, dragging him to a flat stone near the cave entrance. He struggled furiously despite his injured ankle, chains rattling as he fought against his captors. The trolls forced him to his knees, pressing his head against the stone.

"One by one," she continued, voice calm. "The leprechaun first. Then the tiefling. Then the dwarf. Last, your friend. How many can you bear to watch before you yield?"

Adom's heart hammered against his ribs. His friends' lives or the mission? Their suffering or the greater good? The stakes crystallized into perfect, terrible clarity.

No, no. Think. If she kills them, she'd lose her leverage. That's what the logical part of his brain kept insisting. If he surrendered, there was no guarantee she'd honor her word. But if he refused, he'd have to watch them die.

Bob's gaze found Adom's across the distance. In the leprechaun's eyes was something Adom hadn't expected—not fear, but acceptance. Understanding. The look said what his sealed lips couldn't: Don't you dare come out.

The centaur pressed the blade against Bob's throat. A thin line of blood appeared, startlingly red against his pale skin.

"Ten," the witch began counting. "Nine."

Adom's fingers curled into fists. The egg pulsed faster, hotter against his palm.

"Eight. Seven."

Cyrel's hand found his arm, gripping tight. Her mental voice was strained: "She'd kill them all regardless."

"Six. Five."

The dryads had gathered behind him, tense and silent. Zuni had pressed himself against the tree, trembling.

"Four. Three."

Bob closed his eyes. A tear tracked down his cheek, but his posture was resolute.

"Two."

Blood trickled from the blade's edge, staining the leprechaun's collar. Adom trembled with rage, white energy crackling along his fingertips. But he didn't move toward the exit.

"One."

The blade pressed deeper. Bob's face contorted in pain.

"Stop," the witch said suddenly, raising a hand.

The centaur froze, blade still against Bob's throat. The leprechaun's eyes flew open, confusion mingling with relief.

The witch smiled enough to see her white teeth. "Fascinating. You truly would let them die." She tilted her head. "Not out of cruelty, I think, but out of understanding the stakes." She gestured, and the centaur lowered the blade, though it kept its grip on Bob. "Annoying."

Adom's chest heaved with barely contained fury. He said nothing, not trusting his voice.

"I have an idea," the witch said after a moment. "A compromise, perhaps."

Adom hesitated, suspicion warring with desperate hope. "What is it?" he finally asked.

"Tell me, Adom Sylla," she asked, "do you know what I am?"

The question hung in the air between them.

Adom studied her, uncertain. "I have... suspicions."

"As expected." She nodded. "I am of the race your kind calls demons. We call ourselves the Neth'ir."

Adom didn't appear surprised, which seemed to please her.

"In the old times," she continued, "when my people and dragons and phoenixes and umbras still roamed the world freely, we played a game as children." Her voice took on a nostalgic quality. "The War of Tongues, we called it."

She traced patterns in the air, leaving faint purple trails that dissipated after a few seconds. "Two opponents speak in turn. Each names a truth—an idea, a force, a form. The other must answer with a truth that overcomes it. One consumes the other. One stands. The other yields." She spread her hands. "Simple, elegant, and binding."

"A game," Adom said flatly, eyes on Bob's bleeding neck.

"Not just any game," the witch corrected. "The game was created when our kind still warred with Dragons, Phoenixes and Umbra. It became a civilized alternative to endless bloodshed. The results are magically binding—not even I can violate them."

Adom glanced at the dryads. The smallest one gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"The War of Tongues has rules older than the sanctuary itself," the witch said. "If you accept the challenge and win, I must grant your request—within reason. If I win, you grant mine."

"And what would you request?" Adom asked.

The witch smiled. "The same thing I already want. You. My daughter. The egg."

Adom considered. If the dryad's nod meant anything, the witch wasn't lying about the binding nature of this game.

"And if I refuse to play?"

The witch shrugged elegantly. "Then we return to our previous arrangement." The blade rose again to Bob's neck. "Beginning where we left off."

Adom weighed his options.

The War of Tongues. A game of words against a being who had likely been speaking since before humans had written language. A contest with a creature who'd had thousands of years to perfect the art of truth-twisting.

If he faced her directly in combat, he'd lose. That much was certain. She wasn't bluffing about her power—anyone who could command this many transformed creatures and maintain complex magics simultaneously was operating on a level he couldn't match yet.

If he accepted the duel... what then?

She'd select her challenges carefully, crafted from millennia of experience. She'd find the weak points in his knowledge, exploit gaps in his understanding. Whatever rules governed this game, she'd know them intimately. He'd be playing a master's game as a novice.

And if he just... left?

The portal was right there. The dryads could activate it. His friends would die, yes, but hadn't he already demonstrated his willingness to accept that?

The stakes were high. The future of worlds hung in the balance.

Wasn't sacrificing four lives mathematically justifiable? Cruel calculus, but calculus nonetheless.

Why had he even returned to this world? To live. To experience the life he'd been denied. To taste freedom after a lifetime of confinement. When would it end, this constant stream of crises and challenges? When would he be allowed to simply exist without the weight of fate pressing down on him?

The egg pulsed in his hand, warm and insistent. The phoenix within, unborn but aware, seemed to sense his turmoil.

Adom chuckled softly, surprising himself. The sound drew curious glances from the Cyrel.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Cold pragmatism just wasn't his style. Never had been, even when it should have been. He'd made choices against his own self-interest before. Why should this one be any different?

"May I confer with my companions?" Adom asked.

The witch studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. But do not waste too much time. My blade grows impatient." She gestured toward Bob, who was still kneeling with blood trickling down his neck.

Adom retreated deeper into the cave, gathering the dryads around him. Their leaves rustled with agitation.

"Is what she says true?" he asked quietly. "About this War of Tongues being binding?"

Daphne, the silver-birch dryad, nodded. "It is the First Magic—Deep Magic."

"Even she cannot break its bindings," the smallest dryad added. "The magic itself would punish her."

"The game is ancient," the third dryad said. "From before my kind took root in the world."

Adom rubbed his temples. "Do you think I can win this?"

The dryads exchanged glances. There was no reassurance in their expressions, only concern.

"Do you believe you can?" Daphne asked instead.

Adom considered the question honestly.

There was a long pause.

Then:

"No," he admitted. "Probably not. She's had thousands of years to master this game. But... I can try."

Zuni scurried up to his shoulder, eyes twitching nervously. "And what if you lose, might I inquire? Have you considered the ramifications of surrendering yourself—and by extension, the rather substantial power you're developing—to a being who transforms creatures into monsters for sport?"

Adom glanced back toward the cave entrance, where his companions knelt in chains. Doubt gnawed at him. The probability of loss was high. Dangerously high.

But if he was being honest with himself, he'd made his decision the moment he saw their faces.

"Sometimes the only choices we have are bad ones," he said finally. "But we still have to choose."

He stood, brushing dust from his clothes. The dryads parted as he walked toward the cave entrance, where Cyrel stood rigidly, locked in a silent stare-down with her mother. The two had been eyeing each other ever since the witch's arrival, neither willing to be the first to look away.

Adom stepped beside Cyrel. "I accept your challenge," he called out.

The witch's gaze shifted to him, her lips curving into a smile. "Excellent." She extended one pale hand across the barrier. "Take my hand to seal the agreement."

Adom hesitated. Reaching beyond the barrier meant exposing himself to whatever magic she might wield.

"The binding is already in effect," she said, noting his reluctance. "You may reach out without fear."

He turned to the dryads, who nodded reluctantly. Cyrel's mental voice pushed into his consciousness: "Be careful."

"Here," he said, trying to hand the egg to Cyrel. "Hold this for me."

As she took it, the flames flared suddenly. Cyrel gasped, jerking her hand back. A small burn mark appeared on her palm.

The witch winced, a flash of concern crossing her face. "Careful with her," she snapped, her composure slipping for the first time.

"I'm sorry," Adom said quickly. "I didn't know it would—"

"It's fine," Cyrel interrupted, her mental voice steady despite the pain evident in her eyes.

Adom placed the egg carefully on the ground, flames dancing harmlessly around his fingers as he withdrew his hand. He straightened, facing the witch once more.

Her hand remained extended, just beyond the barrier. With a deep breath, Adom reached out.

The moment their fingers touched, everything changed.

Mana—pure, unfiltered magical energy—burst into visibility around them. Not just visible but tangible, audible, a living presence that filled the space between realms. It swirled in complex patterns, colors he'd never seen before and couldn't name, forming shapes that seemed to fold in on themselves in impossible geometries.

And it spoke.

Not in words, exactly, but in a strange chorus that he couldn't quite make out.

Adom stared, fascinated.

Mages had theorized for centuries that mana might be semi-sentient, that magic itself might possess a form of consciousness. But it had never been proven. It was considered fringe science, the kind of speculation that serious academics dismissed.

Yet here it was.

Adom struggled to find his voice. "What... what are they?"

"The Voices of Creation," The witch replied. "The First Speakers."

Adom couldn't tear his eyes away from the swirling patterns. "What are they saying?"

"They're establishing the binding," she replied. "Setting the terms of our agreement." She smiled at his obvious fascination. "Humans typically can't comprehend the language of raw magic. Yet here you are, straining to understand it like a child hearing music for the first time."

The mana continued to dance around them, voices rising and falling in rhythmic patterns. Adom felt like he was standing at the edge of an enormous discovery, tantalizingly close to understanding something fundamental about how magic worked.

"Let us formalize our agreement," the witch said, "The ritual requires declaration." Her voice lowered. "State your name and declare your intent."

Adom glanced at the dryads, who nodded in confirmation.

The witch straightened. "I, Seraphine of the Neth'ir, Sovereign of the Western Realms, challenge Adom Sylla to the War of Tongues." Her voice echoed unnaturally, as if thousands of voices spoke in perfect unison with her own. "Should I emerge victorious, I claim the man, the egg, and my daughter as my rightful prize."

The mana pulsed around them, acknowledging her declaration.

"And should I emerge victorious," Adom asked, "what do I claim?"

"The freedom of your companions and safe passage through my realm for all who stand with you," she replied, the echo still resonating in her words.

Adom took a deep breath. "I, Adom Sylla, accept the challenge of Seraphine of the Neth'ir." To his surprise, his voice carried the same otherworldly echo, multiplying through the cave and beyond. "Should I emerge victorious, I claim the freedom of my companions and safe passage through your realm."

The witch nodded, satisfied. "The terms are set. Now for the rules."

"The duel begins when the binding is complete. We speak in turn. Each names a truth—a force, a concept, an essence. The other must answer with one that overcomes it. We continue until one of us can no longer answer."

She moved her fingers in a slow spiral, and the mana responded, threading through the air like script written in flame.

"There are no time limits, but hesitate too long and the truth will consume you. Speak falsely, and the binding will reject your words. This magic has no tolerance for liars or cowards."

She looked at him.

"It ends when one of us yields—or is silenced."

The mana tightened between them, the circle pulsing.

"Do you accept these terms?"

Adom met her gaze, then glanced once at Cyrel, then to the egg resting behind him, silent and pulsing.

"I do," he said. "But—" He raised a hand, calmly. "I request one condition be added."

Seraphine tilted her head. "Speak."

Adom kept his voice even. "If either of us speaks a truth that is self-reflective—if we use ourselves as the form, not just metaphor or abstraction—it must be accepted as binding with greater weight."

Seraphine narrowed her eyes slightly. "You want personal declarations to carry more power?"

"I want them to carry more cost," he replied. "More risk. If I say 'I am fire,' the effect is fire. But if I say 'I am Adom,' or you say 'I am Seraphine'—the binding takes that as absolute."

She studied him, expression unreadable.

"You would risk speaking your own name in the game? Do you know how dangerous that is?"

"If I do, it will be because I must. I'm only asking the magic to hold us to it."

There was a long pause.

Then she smiled—slowly. "Interesting. Foolish, perhaps. But... acceptable."

The mana pulsed once—agreement sealed.

"Then we begin."

The moment Adom let go of Seraphine's hand, the world ended.

Not literally. But close.

The cave, the dryads, his friends, the portal—gone. Just like that. No dramatic unraveling, no ripple. One blink, and the only things left were him, her, and the circle of magic they now stood in.

The arena was featureless. Just a vast plane of dim, shifting color. It didn't feel like a place. It felt like a placeholder for one. Something magic was still deciding how to render.

Seraphine took one deliberate step forward. Her heels didn't echo. The ground had forgotten how sound worked.

"Since it is your first time," she said, "I will begin. You may watch. Learn. Be awed."

She didn't say it cruelly. She said it like a teacher. Which was worse.

Adom wasn't about to argue. His mouth was dry. His fingers tingled.

"This can be disorienting, at first," she went on, calm and poised. "You will feel the truths before you understand them. Try not to panic."

She raised her chin slightly.

"I am the desert."

It hit before he could react.

Heat slammed into him from all angles. His clothes stuck to his back. His tongue dried up instantly. The ground cracked beneath his feet, shifting into sand. The light changed. It wasn't just visual—everything was bleached, sun-scoured. The wind carried nothing but dust.

"I am heat without mercy. Distance without direction. I am thirst, and isolation, and the end of things green."

Adom stumbled. His boots sank into scorching sand. Sweat evaporated as soon as it formed. His lungs hurt.

Okay.

Right. This wasn't metaphor. This was Deep Magic.

His heart pounded.

Think. Think.

He took a slow step forward, trying to steady himself.

"I am the rain."

The shift was immediate.

A crack of thunder. A downpour so sudden it shocked his skin. Cool water poured from nowhere and soaked the ground beneath his feet, carving into the sand. The air changed—wet, alive, full of scent.

"I am the quenching. The balm. The change. I fall, and what was dead drinks. What was forgotten blooms. I end drought. I restore."

He could breathe again. Just barely.

Seraphine gave him a look. Not angry. Interested.

She raised a hand.

"I am the sea."

The floor dropped.

Adom flailed as water engulfed him. Cold. Deep. Endless. There was no surface, no bottom. Just currents pulling in every direction. Pressure built around his skull. Something vast passed in the distance.

"I am pressure. I am depth. I am ancient memory that drowns the present. I do not forgive. I do not rise. I swallow."

He kicked upward, blind. His chest screamed. No air. No light. Just salt and weight and her voice, unbothered.

Panic clawed at his throat.

Then he focused. Sharpened the thought.

"I am the storm."

Crack.

Lightning split the water. The current reversed. Wind churned the sea into chaos. He rose with it, flung upward through thunder and foam until he landed—somewhere—on wet, broken stone.

His breath came back in ragged gasps.

"I am upheaval," he said. "The sky that strikes. The wave that crashes. The answer to depths that thought themselves eternal."

Seraphine tilted her head.

"You are learning."

She moved again. This time slower.

"Do you wish to surrender?"

Adom spat seawater and wiped his eyes. "No."

"You should."

She smiled like someone watching a child try to walk on fire.

"I am time."

He felt it.

His body aged. His scars returned. His limbs ached. Hair grayed. Skin thinned. Everything slowed. The world dulled, and the edges frayed.

"I am the erosion of certainty. The reason your heroes crumble and your stories end. I make ruins. I make ash."

He knelt.

It was hard to think. Memories blurred.

Then something sparked.

Not defiance. Something deeper.

"I am memory," he said through cracked lips.

Warmth flooded in.

Not fire—familiarity. A scent. A voice. His mother's laugh. Zuni's tiny grip. The first time he saw fire dance under his palm.

"I am the story remembered. The name repeated. The lesson carried forward. I hold the past, and I pass it on. You do not erase me."

He stood.

And the wrinkles faded.

Seraphine narrowed her eyes. She didn't smile this time.

Her next step sent a pulse through the circle.

"I am despair."

The light died.

No storm. No sea. No time.

Just a void.

Adom's knees hit something. He didn't know what. There was no floor. No cave. Nothing but a crushing, hollow silence. Like the air had forgotten sound. Like the world had moved on and left him behind.

"I am the breath you don't take. The hand that doesn't reach back. The end of trying. I end will. I end meaning."

He didn't want to move.

Didn't want to speak.

Didn't even want to think.

But he heard something.

A rhythm.

The egg's pulse.

Not a beat. A choice.

He clenched his teeth.

"I am hope."

The void cracked. Not shattered—cracked.

A thin line of light broke through the dark.

"I am the reason you stand up again. The hand in the rubble. The fire under the ash. I don't deny endings. I survive them."

The world returned, piece by piece.

Seraphine stared at him. Her expression had changed.

She looked almost... irritated.

"You are too young to mean those words."

"And you're too old to remember what they cost."

She stepped forward again. Last time, maybe.

She raised her hand.

"I am death."

It wasn't dramatic.

It was quiet.

Things withered. The air. The walls. Even color faded. Adom felt something brush past him—cold, absolute, patient.

"I am the silence after. The truth beneath all others. I do not rage. I do not beg. I wait. I win."

And Adom felt it.

He was going to die.

No spell. No will. Just... done.

He dropped.

On hands and knees. Vision flickering.

The mana pressed in. Watching. Waiting.

He didn't want to lie.

Didn't want to cheat.

But there was still something inside him. Still something breathing.

He looked up.

And he thought about what Daphne had asked him before the duel began:

Do you believe you can?

At the time, he'd said no.

Not because he lacked courage. Or even resolve.

But because that question, in the current context, had reached deeper than she probably realized. Deeper than tactics or confidence.

Words had power here. Literal, world-breaking power. The rules were cruelly simple: speak a truth. Something fundamental. Something that is. And the other must answer with something truer. Bigger. Stronger.

If someone asked you, truly, who are you? Most people would say their name. Maybe their job. Their history. Some titles they wore like armor.

But in this place, those were surface. Names were keys, not answers.

If you had to name yourself as a concept—what would you be worth?

That's what had lingered. That's why, when he asked Seraphine to accept the added rule about self-declaration, he wasn't playing a trick. He was… trying something. Testing a question the answer of which he wasn't sure about yet.

He knew he'd end up backed into a corner—trapped, outmatched, unsure of the next move.

Seraphine has existed for millennia. She's witnessed civilizations rise and fall, had probably participated in countless such duels, and possessed knowledge of concepts, forces, and entities that Adom couldn't even imagine.

In a straightforward exchange of cosmic truths, he would inevitably reach a point where she would name something so ancient or obscure that he would have no frame of reference to counter it.

He knew all that even before accepting the challenge.

So, he decided to try the one thing she might not know the full weight of.

The one thing he didn't fully understand either.

Himself.

He stood.

His voice cracked—but held.

"I am Adom."

The world shook.

The mana flared.

It reacted—not with obedience, but recognition. It pulled back from Seraphine. It surged toward him.

He didn't stop.

"I am the one who died and came back. I am the one who begged, who broke, who clawed. I am pain that learned to walk."

Seraphine's mouth parted slightly.

The circle dimmed.

"I am the second chance that keeps paying. I am the hand that wouldn't let go. I am the burn, and I am the healing."

The light turned gold. The ground shifted. The air vibrated.

"I am Rebirth," he said. "I am the spark that comes after ash. The shape after ruin. The meaning after loss. I am not the end of anything. I am what begins again."

Adom took another step. The mana rose with him.

"I am human resilience," he continued. "The will to keep moving forward when everything says stop. I am the persistence that outlasts despair. The hunger to make meaning even in ruin."

The mana expanded. So did he.

Not physically, not really. But in the arena of Deep Magic, where meaning shaped matter, Adom grew. Larger. Brighter. He began to tower. His shape bled into the edges of the arena. His shadow became light.

Seraphine blinked, once.

He kept going.

And as he spoke, something inside him clicked. He wasn't reciting a list. He was discovering it. One layer at a time. The more he said, the more he understood. Not felt. Understood. Logically. Precisely. This is what I am. This is what I have always been.

He took another step.

"I am Adom Sylla. I was nothing. I became. I am still becoming."

Seraphine didn't flinch.

She stepped forward and straightened to her full height—not just physically, but in presence. In assertion. In identity.

Her voice was calm. Crisp. No tremor, no plea.

"I am Seraphine of the Neth'ir," she said.

And she began to grow.

"I am dominion."

Her feet anchored into the stone. Her limbs lengthened, posture sharpening into elegance. Her robe peeled away like shed skin, replaced by something sleek and segmented.

"I am metamorphosis," she continued. "I am adaptation given direction. The cutting edge of necessity. I am the instinct that survives and improves and survives again."

Her shoulders broadened. Spines curved along her arms. Horns. Wings. Something behind her unfolded with a sound like breaking metal.

"I am the wisdom of things that live long enough to watch gods die," she said. "I am the mind that innovates, iterates, endures. I am the law that rewrites itself when the old words stop being useful."

Now she towered. Her shadow stretched across the floor. Her eyes glowed sharp.

"I am the shape things are meant to take," she said.

And then her voice hit a snag.

"I am…"

Silence.

Her mouth stayed open a beat longer than she meant to. The words weren't there.

Not because she was finished. But because there was no more.

She was huge now. She filled the space. Towered over everything. Her shadow reached Adom's feet.

And still, she had to look up.

Because he hadn't moved. Hadn't flared. Hadn't risen.

He was simply there—still, and somehow unmistakably above her. As if reality itself had redrawn its center around him and forgotten to notify her.

He wasn't casting weight. He was weight. Dense. Unyielding.

She had climbed to the top of her truth. She was everything she had ever been, every sharpened part of herself laid bare and burning.

And yet she was still standing in someone else's shadow.

Seraphine gasped.

Yes. She had grown into everything she was.

And he hadn't even begun.

That's when she understood.

And the silence between them said it for her.

Plainly.

Unforgivingly.

She was not the greater truth.

Not here. Not now.

Not against him.

The game didn't end with a scream.

It ended with silence.

Then the circle dissolved.

And Seraphine lowered her eyes.

The world snapped back into focus.

Adom was standing outside the cave now, just beyond the barrier. He didn't remember stepping through it. The transition had been seamless—one moment in the formless arena of the War of Tongues, the next back in the physical world.

Seraphine stood motionless before him, staring into nothing. Her face was blank, eyes unfocused, as if she were looking at something a thousand miles away.

"What happened?" Bob whispered, eyes darting between them. His mouth was free again, though blood still stained his collar.

Thorgen was struggling against his chains, face twisted in confusion. Zara's eyes were wide with alarm. Artun kept shaking his head, mouthing something that looked like "get back."

None of them had seen what happened in the duel. They'd only witnessed Adom step through the barrier and take the witch's hand—then both of them had gone utterly still for several minutes.

"Seraphine," Adom said.

She didn't respond. Didn't even blink.

"Seraphine," he repeated, louder this time.

She inhaled sharply, as if surfacing from deep water. Her eyes refocused, settling on his face with newfound intensity.

"I won," Adom said. "We had a deal."

The centaurs and trolls shifted uneasily. The shadow creatures exchanged glances, uncertain what to do. Silence stretched across the clearing.

"You... won?" Bob managed, voice cracking. Thorgen's mouth fell open. Zara's eyes narrowed in disbelief.

Seraphine said nothing for a long while. She just looked at him, her expression unreadable.

"How did I not see this?" she finally muttered, so quietly Adom barely caught it despite standing right in front of her.

Adom had a hundred questions. A thousand. But his friends' lives took priority.

"Our agreement," he pressed. "Honor it."

Seraphine lifted her gaze to the night sky. The moonlight caught her features, turning them to marble. She inhaled deeply.

Adom's mind raced suddenly. What if she refused? Would the binding force her compliance? What if she decided that death was preferable to defeat—and chose to take them all with her? What if—

"Release them," Seraphine said.

The command was flat, emotionless. But the effect was immediate.

The creatures moved forward. Chains fell away. The prisoners staggered as they were suddenly freed, stumbling toward the cave entrance.

"Go!" Artun shouted, grabbing Adom's arm as he passed. "Don't just stand there!"

"Let's move," Zara added, limping but determined.

Thorgen didn't speak—just seized Adom's other arm with his remaining hand and pulled.

Bob was already at the cave entrance, waving frantically. "The portal! Get the portal ready!"

The dryads were moving inside, gathering around the apple tree. Daphne placed her hands on the trunk, murmuring words that made the bark glow faintly.

Adom glanced back. Seraphine hadn't moved. She stood like a statue among her army of transformed creatures, watching him with that same unsettling, detached expression. Whatever existential crisis she was experiencing, she was experiencing it privately.

He bent down and scooped up the phoenix egg. It pulsed warmly against his palm, as if greeting him.

The apple tree's trunk split open, revealing a shimmering doorway of golden light.

"Go, go!" Bob urged, practically shoving Zara through the portal. Thorgen followed, then Artun, then the smallest dryad.

Cyrel hesitated at the threshold, looking back at her mother one last time. Their eyes met across the distance. Something unspoken passed between them. Then Cyrel turned and stepped through.

Daphne followed, leaving only Adom and Zuni.

"That's our cue, my friend," Zuni said, biting at Adom's ankle. "Fascinating as this interaction has been, I'd rather not overstay our welcome."

Adom nodded, but found himself taking one last look at Seraphine. Their eyes locked. For a moment, he thought she might speak again. Say something profound or threatening. But she remained silent, watching him with those ancient, knowing eyes.

Adom stepped through the shimmering doorway, the egg clutched tightly to his chest.

The last thing he saw before the golden light enveloped him was Seraphine, still standing alone among her army, her face tilted slightly upward—as if listening to something no one else could hear.