The ground trembled.

  The shadows opened like living portals.

  Three figures emerged, each carrying a different weight in the air.

  The black forest fell silent. Even the wind stopped.

  The first to appear was the Wind.

  A whirlwind lifted dust and dry leaves.

  From its center, a tall, slender man stepped out, silver hair floating on its own, as if the entire world breathed around him.

  His blue?gray eyes reflected a calm arrogance.

  He spun a spear made of aerial chains, and the slicing sound echoed like invisible blades.

  — “I am Zepharion, the Far?Reaching Breath. Decade. The wind that erodes all things into eternity.”

  The air thinned. Stingara felt her chest tighten, as if she were being suffocated.

  Then came the Fire.

  The ground cracked, magma dripping through the fissures.

  A colossal warrior emerged, skin marked by glowing veins, hair made of eternal flames.

  His greatsword pulsed as if forged from living magma.

  He raised the blade, and suffocating heat swallowed the field.

  — “Ignarok, the Yearly Blaze. Year. The flame that consumes all in its inevitable cycle.”

  The air burned. Stingara’s skin stung just from breathing.

  Last came the Silence.

  No sound.

  Darkness condensed into almost invisible threads, trembling like spiderwebs.

  A thin, hooded figure with white, pupil?less eyes walked forward slowly.

  Each step seemed to erase the sound of the world.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He lifted his hands, and the rings on his fingers glowed, releasing threads that sliced the air like blades.

  — “Silmure, the Weaver of Silence. Day. The thread that mutes voices and cuts destinies.”

  The silence was so absolute that even Stingara’s heartbeat seemed to hesitate.

  The three aligned before Souta and Stingara.

  Wind roared, fire burned, and threads trembled in the void.

  In unison, their voices echoed like a demonic chant:

  — “We are the Temporals. Gatekeepers. Executioners of the Demon King.”

  Souta grinned, spinning his spoon.

  — “Hah… three against two? I’ve seen this cliché in like a hundred anime. Let’s see if you guys are any more creative.”

  Creamy resonated in his mind, firm yet ironic:

  — “Sir, the demonic realm is interfering with your magical output. Statistically, you are about to die in 25.9% of simulations. But of course, you’ve never been a fan of statistics.”

  Stingara, trembling, released her crimson aura, the sunset burning across her skin.

  Interaction Between the Temporals

  Zepharion (Decade) spun his spear, a cold smile on his face.

  — “Tsk… humans and half?breeds always believe they can defy time. But time… always wins.”

  Ignarok (Year) stepped forward, his molten blade pulsing.

  — “Don’t speak as if this were a game, Zepharion! This battle is a ritual! A burning offering to our Demon King!”

  Silmure (Day) murmured, barely audible:

  — “…one day… one day everyone stops breathing…”

  Souta raised an eyebrow.

  — “Huh? Was that a threat or bad poetry?”

  Zepharion sighed, annoyed.

  — “Ignore him. Silmure speaks little… and when he does, no one understands.”

  Ignarok roared with fervor:

  — “It doesn’t matter! His silence is proof of his devotion! Every thread he moves is a prayer to our lord!”

  Silmure murmured again, staring into the void:

  — “…or maybe it’s just boredom…”

  Souta couldn’t hold back his laughter.

  — “Hahaha! This is great. The fanatic screams, the wind thinks he’s a philosopher, and the depressed one does stand?up by accident. What a trio.”

  Zepharion narrowed his eyes, arrogant.

  — “Laugh while you can, human. The wind doesn’t need to chase. It simply waits… and wears down.”

  Ignarok raised his sword, black flames erupting.

  — “And fire consumes everything, whether you want it or not!”

  Silmure whispered again, like a funeral sigh:

  — “…in the end, all become ash…”