Under Ice's gaze, the atmosphere thickened, growing heavier with tension as the battlefield darkened—literally. Each time Jilius was forced back, dozens of trees were uprooted without even being touched, swept away by sheer force. Ice could barely track their movements, catching only flashes within the chaos.
All he could perceive was a white blur darting and colliding with another, even brighter one. He frowned, helpless, as the battle that could determine his fate unfolded before him. The creature meant to mirror his very soul was now locked in a deadly struggle against someone who, not long ago, had been a complete stranger.
Ice's heart pounded. The pressure alone threatened to bring him to his knees, yet he stood firm, unable to intervene, unable to flee. He could only watch—motionless.
"If this creature of light is my reflection… then what does that make me?" he wondered, shaken. As the thought took root in his mind, a strange glow flickered in his eyes, and without realizing it, a door handle slowly materialized before him, hovering in the air.
Jilius could barely catch his breath, each gasp ragged and strained. His body was riddled with searing particles of light from every blow he had endured.
He managed to parry the creature's attacks, but he couldn't find an opening. The beast was relentless, now targeting his left side—plunged in total darkness.
Each particle of light that slipped through his guard could prove fatal.
"Since when do the Bewitched have the ability to think?" he muttered under his breath.
The beast was adapting. Its movements had grown precise, calculated.
Overwhelmed, Jilius leapt backward, trying to create distance between them. As he steadied himself, he saw the apostle raise its hand, a sphere of radiant energy forming in its palm.
He barely registered the moment it was released. Reflexively, he lifted his sword to deflect the blast—and managed to—but the impact sent him staggering backward.
Before he could recover, the apostle was already upon him, brandishing a glowing spear. It struck forward in a blinding flash.
Jilius twisted, but the blow landed true. A deafening gust of force hurled him ten meters away, tearing off his left arm.
He crashed to the ground, trembling, his body barely holding together. Blood ran down his face—yet his expression reflected anything but defeat.
His features were strange: a serene calm veiled in terror. He knew. This would be his last dance.
"Let there be light," he whispered.
His hand burst into brilliance, a glow so pure it seemed to momentarily repel even the apostle's divine radiance. Everything he had left—every drop of essence his body could muster—he poured into this final strike. He would emerge victorious, as always.
He stepped forward, heedless of the burning light particles whirling around him, indifferent even to the loss of his arm. With his remaining hand, he tightened his grip on the sword. Energy erupted around him like a storm.
In the blink of an eye, he vanished.
He reappeared inches from the apostle, who barely had time to register his presence before the blade—wrapped in water-like essence—pierced through its heart.
The apostle screamed as blinding light burst from the wound, an overwhelming torrent pouring from its chest.
Jilius collapsed, laughing in disbelief, a near-maniacal grin twisting his bloodied face. He had done it. Against all odds—his injuries, the pain, the sheer impossibility—he had defeated an apostle of light.
Even if only for a fleeting moment, and only by burning his very soul, he had used his Blessing inside the Prison of Time—something no one had ever achieved before.
He could no longer move, but the creature, though mortally wounded, still twitched. There was still a faint breath of life within it.
Then, its cries softened. Slowly, it turned its head toward Ice.
Even in death, its purpose remained absolute.
Jilius tried to scream, to warn him, but no sound escaped his lips.
A glowing spear formed in the apostle's trembling hand, raised one last time toward Ice—its final act of duty.
But before it could release the strike, a thin rapier pierced through its back.
Natasha had appeared—silent, swift—emerging from the shadows at the very last moment to end the torment of the dying apostle.
The creature let out a faint gasp before collapsing lifelessly to the ground. The shimmering light that had surrounded it faded away, dissolving into the air.
Ice stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief. The unnatural glow in his pupils had vanished, and the floating door handle with it—though he hadn't even noticed their disappearance. He could only wonder how he was still alive… or why.
His heart pounded furiously. For a moment, the world was nothing but silence. Then, with effort, he forced his legs to move—first one shaky step, then another.
And then he ran.
He rushed to Jilius, who lay motionless in a spreading pool of blood.
The man's body was broken, riddled with wounds, drained of color—battered beyond repair. But the most haunting sight of all was his hair: once streaked with color, now completely white. His fate was sealed.
Ice dropped to his knees beside him, guilt twisting in his chest.
"Why…?" he asked, voice trembling with incomprehension. Jilius had never struck him as the altruistic type. His sacrifice made no sense to Ice.
Jilius stirred faintly, barely able to turn his head.
"You could've just left," Ice murmured, pain seeping into every word. "You didn't have to do this. You didn't have to die for a stranger. You could've just ignored me… and lived."
Jilius let out a sound—half laugh, half cough—as he tried to smile, though his lips barely moved.
"And how…" he rasped, "…how do you expect to live in a place where you have to survive?"
A faint glint of light shimmered across the ring on his finger as he tried to sit up—but failed, slumping back with a grunt.
Ice caught his hand immediately, steadying him.
Jilius's grip was weak, little more than a twitch, but he pressed something into Ice's palm—the ring.
"I don't have much time left," he said, his breath growing shallow. "Take this. Give it to the Vernes when you get out."
He paused, eyes sharp despite the pain.
"That ring… it's more important than I ever was. Keeping it safe, passing it on—that's the only reason I've lived this long."
Ice opened his mouth, but no words came. His throat tightened. He simply nodded and clenched the ring in his fist.
Jilius turned his gaze one last time toward Natasha's still form—the woman who had been his shadow for the last decade. He gave a faint nod, as if offering silent approval.
Then he let go.
His upper body slumped to the ground, lips parting in one final breath beneath the eternal sun—the sun that never left its zenith.
"Come on," he whispered weakly. "Good night."
And with those final words, his body melted into the earth. From the spot where he had fallen, a great and radiant tree began to grow, its roots burrowing deep into the ground before their eyes. The branches stretched upward, spreading rapidly around Ice, casting a shadow both ominous and warm—one that even the sun itself seemed unable to pierce.
Jilius was repentant.