Disillusionment

(Frieren's Illusion)

The magical light that gathered at her fingertips was as sharp as a blade, reflecting in Frieren's calm, emerald eyes.

The Flamme in front of him put on a pitiful expression, her voice deliberately coquettish:

"No, Frieren! I'm practically your teacher, aren't I? I've taught you so much magic, how can you treat me like this...?"

Frieren looked at her silently, her gaze seemingly piercing through the illusory shell, seeing certain scenes blurred by time. She remembered how, long ago, when Flamme was caught stealing her snacks, she had acted the same way.

She spoke softly, her voice calm. "It's been a long time, Flamme."

She paused, then added, "No need for explanations."

"Flamme" seemed to have been pricked by a needle, shrinking back in fear, her voice becoming even more urgent. "Oh...? What's wrong...? I just stole one of your egg tarts yesterday? I'll definitely make it up to you another day... Or, how about I teach you a new Flower Field Magic? You've definitely never seen this kind before..."

The magical radiance at the tip of Frieren's staff steadily increased without wavering.

"Flamme's" voice seemed to carry a hint of genuine panic, and she became incoherent. "No... no... oh well, anyway, Frieren, you're older than me, how about I call you 'sister' and forgive me this time..."

He hadn't finished speaking.

"Bang!"

The concentrated beam of magic struck "Flamme" precisely in the chest. The illusion, like a reflection on water struck by a pebble, instantly twisted and shattered, turning into streaks of light that dissipated into the air.

Frieren slowly lowered her staff, her emerald pupils showing no sign of shattering the illusion. She murmured to herself, as if brushing dust off an old object:

"I've seen Flamme begging for mercy so many times, it's nothing new."

The illusion began to fluctuate violently, and the surrounding scenery peeled away like a faded mural. But Frieren did not immediately search for an exit; her silver pointed ears twitched slightly, as if trying to catch some subtle magical echo in the air.

(Lowell's Illusion)

"Master! Thank goodness you arrived in time!"

A girl's clear voice, filled with relief at surviving a calamity, rang out. Lowell stood on the ravaged battlefield, looking at Freya before him, her chest armor torn and her white light armor stained with blood. She was giving him a weak yet radiant smile, as if she felt no pain.

And the culprit who caused all this—"Sin Eater" Gramar— was grinning as he reached out his blood-stained hand toward Freya's heart, which still seemed to be beating slightly.

There is no time to hesitate.

Even as her rational mind screamed "This is an illusion," and even as her soul experienced waves of dizziness and tearing sensations from continuously breaking through the illusion, Lowell's body moved before her thoughts could process them.

With a flash of black shadow, he was already in front of Freya, easily crushing Gramar's outstretched arm with one hand, and with the other hand, as if piercing through tofu, precisely pulling out the Great Demons's heart and crushing it.

The movements were so fast they left only afterimages, carrying a suppressed, almost numb, violence.

The illusion of Gramar didn't even have time to scream before it turned to ashes and vanished.

Freya softly nestled into his arms, her cool temperature seeping through their clothes.

She looked up, her face beaming with a trusting smile, devoid of any gloom. "Hehe... As expected of Master! If you hadn't arrived in time, Freya might have perished here! Humph! It's all your fault for not being tough enough to train me properly before, for not wanting me to suffer... That was close! Master! Stay and train me properly! Freya isn't afraid of any pain, I want to become the strongest warrior!"

Lowell stared blankly at the vibrant face in his arms, the golden eyes reflecting his somewhat empty expression. The continuous exertion had significantly impaired his judgment, yet the realism of the illusion was strangely increasing in tandem.

"Freya..." he whispered, his voice hoarse. He knew it was fake, an illusion that had unearthed the deepest scars and regrets in his heart, but that familiar tone, that reproachful trust, still pierced through his mental defenses like the sharpest ice pick.

The continuous strain significantly impaired his judgment, while the realism of the illusions strangely increased simultaneously.

Seeing him lost in thought, Freya chuckled and tugged at his sleeve. "Master? What's wrong? Too happy? Missed me? Hehe... It really has been a long time since I've seen you, Master... Seven months? Eight months? Master, say something! Can we stay here a little longer this time...?"

"Freya," Lowell spoke again, his voice low and heavy, carrying an almost weary clarity, "You're a fake."

The "Freya" in his arms stiffened, her smile vanishing instantly, replaced by a chilling aura of mockery and malice. She abruptly pushed Lowell away, straightened up, the wound on her chest creeping and healing eerily, her eyes sharpening like knives.

"Fake? So what if it's fake? Lowell, Lorenz... you're a useless coward!"

Her voice rose, laced with a harsh mockery, "You coward... why not stay here? Freya is here, everyone you failed to protect is here! Stay here, my master, as long as you stay here, none of what you fear will happen! Or perhaps—"

She took a step closer, her eyes flashing with a venomous light. "You want to go back to being that loser who can't protect anyone... and watch the people you care about die before your eyes again?"

The word "loser" struck Lowell like a hammer blow, making him gasp for breath. The mental erosion brought on by the illusion tried to overwhelm his last shred of sanity like a tidal wave.

Just then, a calm, slightly cold voice, like moonlight breaking through the clouds, rang out in this illusion filled with malice and temptation:

He is not a loser.

Lowell turned his head sharply.

At the edge of the illusion, a silver-haired elf stood silently, her emerald eyes like two bottomless lakes, calmly gazing in this direction. It was Frieren. She had somehow broken free from her own illusion and found this place.

Frieren's gaze swept over the contorted expression of "Freya," finally settling on Lowell. Her tone remained flat, yet carried an undeniable certainty:

"He is not a loser. He has protected me countless times, and he has protected others countless times."

She took a step forward, extended her hand to Lowell, who was standing there stunned, the movement as natural as if she had rehearsed it countless times:

"Come on, I've come to pick you up, Lowell."