"An interesting opponent has finally appeared before me."
Suspended high above in the storm-wracked sky, the peerlessly beautiful Medusa raised her staff with an elegant wave. Her voice dripped with disdain.
"At your level, you still haven't developed your own spells? You're clinging to ancient relics from the era of the Three Witches? Pathetic. Behold true magic!"
"Lily Carnation!"
The ground below began to shudder. A dense black mist erupted, congealing into a towering obsidian plant that surged skyward with terrifying speed.
Ten meters. A hundred. Three hundred.
It pierced the heavens like a monstrous tower, its branches twisting with dark vitality. On each thorn-covered limb bloomed massive, otherworldly black roses—each one rivaling the size of the titanic blossom from before.
This was no mere spell.
This was the true Flower of Death.
The alchemical airship shifted its stern midair, golden light bursting from its hull. Transparent currents surged and spiraled, forming radiant butterflies that scattered like stars before coalescing into a great green tree reaching toward the sky.
The Guardian of Spring.
Cassandra's legendary signature spell—the final gift of the Witch of Spring—unleashed its full might.
Black roses clashed against the green tree and its golden protectors, and the heavens trembled under the weight of their power.
RUMBLE!!
The sound echoed like metal grinding against metal. Winds howled. Ancient trees shattered. Shockwaves exploded outward, tearing across the mountain range like divine fury.
Earth groaned. Sky cracked.
Within the Rose Kingdom below, women filled the streets. Each one young, radiant, beautifully dressed—and every one of them screaming. Their voices merged into a harrowing wail, echoing grief and terror.
In the royal city, countless Level Four and Level Five witches fought to stabilize their barrier. Magic staves trembled in their hands as they struggled to shield their people from the catastrophic duel raging above.
Meanwhile, in the Kingdom of Babylon.
Suspended in the sky was a colossal mirror crafted from countless droplets of mist. It rippled gently, projecting the battle from afar in perfect clarity.
This was the Level Five spell, Mirror of Spring Mist—the combined work of Babylon's most powerful witches. Ordinarily, such blatant scrying would provoke the wrath of the Rose Kingdom. But today, none of that mattered.
The fate of Babylon teetered on the edge. The outcome of this battle would determine whether they would live—or vanish into history.
"If we cannot win," someone whispered, "then we will perish."
Citizens stepped silently into the streets. They raised their heads in quiet reverence. No one spoke, but a low humming began to spread, a tune filled with sorrow and courage.
The Symphony of Fate.
Stormlike in its intensity. Rainlike in its rhythm. It resonated with human will.
A requiem of survival.
A hymn of resistance.
Above the Royal Palace of Babylon, silence reigned.
The witches of the royal court stood motionless, their elegant faces drained of color as they gazed at the images in the sky.
"So this... this is the power of the legends," one whispered. "Legendary Mages, driven beyond their limits..."
None could speak further. The scale of the battle was inhuman—transcendent. Perhaps the only thing comparable was the war of myth, the War Before the Flood—Gilgamesh's rebellion against the gods.
"We will win."
Lilith's voice was steady, but her knuckles were white around her staff. Sweat trickled down her palm.
Memories of a certain lively little Slime flickered in her mind—his laughter, his ridiculous antics, the way he used to sneak into her throne room with prideful glee.
She had believed she knew everything about him.
But she hadn't seen this coming.
A quiet awe mingled with pride. The silly, boastful little creature had climbed so far, so fast. The day he appeared in her court felt like a lifetime ago.
And now… he was this.
Far away, in a shabby little room in Elizabeth's Coven...
Elizabeth's hands trembled as she covered her mouth, staring at the sky. Her whole body shook with dread. Behind her, the other girls clung to her arms.
"That's him," whispered one. "That's our Slime!"
Melly screamed, panic in her voice. "It's just a Slime! Just a dumb little pet! What is he doing up there in that ridiculous metal suit, fighting for us!?"
She remembered all the times he'd muttered nonsense while fiddling with tools—wrench, gear, screw—constructing his bizarre mechanical giant. It had seemed like a joke.
But now?
That laughable prototype had become a war machine locked in battle with the Witch Empress herself.
Elizabeth's lips trembled. "...He really is the Sixth Level Wizard who appeared at the Royal Palace."
They had all believed he was still only at Level Three. They'd supported him, encouraged him, thinking they were helping him grow. But he had already soared far beyond their reach.
The Slime they knew and loved now battled Medusa herself—Empress of Death.
And yet… a part of them still wished he could go back to being their little magic pet. Just their cheerful, bumbling Slime Wizard.
This wasn't a burden he should carry alone.
"He promised us he'd become the next Magic Emperor," one of them whispered. "I… I can't believe it's really happening."
They stood hand in hand beneath the sky-mirror above Babylon, a torrent of emotions surging through them—pride, fear, love, disbelief.
Amidst the boiling black clouds…
All of Medusa's fearsome Sixth Level spells had been repelled by the strange man's monstrous flying machine.
"You've managed to block me with relic spells from the era of the Three Witches?" Medusa narrowed her eyes. "So… this is alchemy? Have you truly opened the Gates of Truth?"
A flicker of admiration touched her gaze.
Then it vanished.
"It's time," she whispered, "to show you why I am called the Empress of Death. My roses transcend life and death. I can break the final law."
She raised her staff.
"My teacher, Circe of the Three Witches, taught me this forbidden art. Resurrection magic—unfinished, incomplete… but still unstoppable. I cannot truly bring back the dead. Not yet. But I can do something no one else can."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I can summon the strongest warrior to ever live."
"The Hero King. Gilgamesh."
A breathless silence fell across the Kingdom of Babylon.
Gilgamesh.
The very name sent tremors through the heart. The ancient King of Heroes—God-slayer, myth-breaker, the warrior who had once pointed his blade at the heavens themselves.
A man who had stepped beyond even the Three Witches. The only mortal to touch the mythical Seventh Level.
"Impossible..."
"No one can raise the dead..."
"That's the man who was killed by God in the Great War!"
But Medusa stood tall, chanting softly as power gathered around her like a storm.
"Oh lost soul, adrift beyond the veil… Hear my call. The living beckon you. Break open the gates of the Underworld. Return to us!"
"Forbidden Technique: Stygian Rose—Gilgamesh!"
A single black rose bloomed against the dark sky. Petal by petal, it unfurled, revealing the figure within.
A towering man stepped forth, forged from black mist. His gaze was cold and distant. His handsome face devoid of emotion. In his hand was a mighty sword—the holy blade of civilization, the Sword of Damocles.
He raised it.
And swung.
BOOM!
The sword cut through the sky in one perfect, divine arc.
Wind stopped. Rain ceased. Leaves no longer rustled.
Even God seemed to pause, eyes closed, breath held.
The world went silent.