Finn finally started piecing together how mana worked in this world. Honestly, he was shocked he hadn't figured it out sooner—because it was stupidly simple.

From what he understood, everyone was born with mana. It was just part of being alive here. Some people had a lot, some had a little, and some… well, might as well not bother.

Wait—so would this mean there is a difference between races? Like, some were just born with way more mana than others? Like the usual. Elves had ridiculous reserves, humans were average, and dwarves barely scraped by?

His mind spiraled.

There were people who could pull off miracles like Seraphina—or even greater feats. Then there were others who could only manage a watered-down version of it. And then there were the poor bastards who couldn't do anything at all.

It made Finn wonder: could mana be trained? Strengthened? Increased beyond what someone was born with? That's when he thought about his cool white wizard hat. As far as he knew, it gave him mana—but how much? A little? A lot? He had no idea.

And then came the bigger question: what the hell was "magic affinity" in this world? Was it about elements, like fire and water? Or was it about the kind of skills a person already leaned toward?

'If I went to some guild and got tested,' Finn thought, 'would it measure my rearranger ability? Or just my stupid trip powers? …Oh god, what if they laugh at me?'

Then the paranoia kicked in. What if "magic affinity" wasn't even real? What if it was just a system—like a filter—to figure out who actually belonged to this world and who didn't? Finn could practically hear himself sounding like a conspiracy theorist in his own head.

But the questions didn't stop there. Were people stuck with one affinity from birth, or could they choose later? Did staves just make mana bigger, like an amplifier, or were they actually required for casting stronger spells?

Or… did they even matter at all?

His thoughts spiraled. Spells. Blessings. Were those even the same thing? He had seen Seraphina perform both. She blessed everyone on the battlefield, but she had also healed him back in the slime cavern. And she hadn't muttered some grand incantation, or even invoked her Goddess's name.

She had just said, "Heal." And then—boom—he was healed.

So maybe incantations were only for blessings, and not for spells?

Or…

They were entirely different things. Spells obviously relied on the user's mana reserves, while blessings depended on faith and devotion to whichever god was listening. Wait—did that mean there were multiple gods? Multiple blessings? Finn wanted to jump up and cheer.

Until he didn't.

Thinking back, Finn realized the mages earlier had all been chanting incantations before firing spells into the horde. He hadn't caught everything they said, but he definitely heard words.

Which made him wonder—did they only need to say a single line, like "Fireball!"? Or did they need longer chants, like how Seraphina had spoken during her blessing?

Maybe longer words meant bigger spells. The idea alone made Finn giddy. His heart actually fluttered.

Even though this world barely made sense half the time, he couldn't help but enjoy it. The fantasy. The swords. The magic. The whole medieval package. He'd always loved this kind of stuff back home—and yeah, that got him labeled a nerd more than once.

He didn't care.

Sure, he was stuck with the dumbest powers imaginable. But if he could also learn spells, like tossing fireballs and swinging a sword in combat? That would be amazing.

Unfortunately, he still only had his tripping ability. …Which, annoyingly, had actually been very useful so far.

Then finally came a question Finn should've asked from the very start—literally the moment he fell into this world. Literally.

How the hell did he manage to drag Majestria down here with him?

Did she allow it? No way. Was she set up? Temporarily powerless? Or did she just… forget she could stop him? Yeah, that one sounded like her.

Then there was the whole thing about her trying to return to Heaven—only to be flat-out rejected by the other gods. Ouch.

'Was she always hated up there? Wouldn't surprise me.'

But that left an even bigger hole: how was she supposed to get back? He hadn't even bothered to ask. Guilt pricked him at the thought.

'Maybe I'll ask her… wherever the hell she is on this battlefield…

…wait.'

That one word snapped every thought in his head to a screeching halt.

'Wait… why am I monologuing this hard on a battlefield?!' Finn suddenly snapped back to reality, eyes wide. 'What the hell am I doing?!'

***

The battlefield hadn't slowed in the slightest. Humans pressed harder into the horde, blades flashing, arrows whistling, and spells bursting through the dark mass. The air still reeked of blood and smoke, but the tide had shifted—all thanks to Seraphina's blessing.

She stood right beside him, staff in hand, her posture wavering.

Finn blinked at her. She looked… not exactly on the verge of collapse, but close enough. "Are you okay?" he asked, trying not to sound too worried.

She leaned a little heavier on the staff, her emerald eyes dulled with exhaustion. "Yes… I am fine. Thank you for asking."

"You look tired," he pressed.

Her lips quirked faintly. "Tired of standing and moving, mostly…"

'That's actually very understandable,' Finn thought, nodding to himself like a doctor who just diagnosed "walking too much" as a fatal illness.

Then his eyes drifted down to the staff she was leaning on. Oh. Right. The staff. The very important staff.

The one they had borrowed. The one they were supposed to give back.

Finn's head snapped toward where Sophia had been earlier—only to find empty space. No Sophia. No furious petty brat. No "give me back my magical stick" tantrum.

His stomach dropped. "Oh… that's not good."

Seraphina noticed his expression immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Well, there's a slight problem…" Finn started, only to be cut off by yet another thunderous ROAR.

The sound rolled across the battlefield like an earthquake made of teeth and hate.

Every soldier froze, every head turning toward the source.

High above, vast wings unfurled and stretched across the fractured sky, blotting out what little sunlight remained. The leathery skin pulled taut as the wings reached their full span—monstrous, complete.

Finn swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly. Oh God. Oh hell. We're screwed. Like, beyond-screwed. We're "bend over and kiss your butt goodbye" screwed.

The wings shifted—not just flapping, but moving with the colossal body beneath them. The earth itself groaned as if the land didn't want this thing crawling out of it.

Then, with a deafening crack, a massive arm erupted from the muddy ground. Mud and stone exploded skyward, hurling both monsters and soldiers into the air like ragdolls.

The battlefield broke into panic instantly. Screams tore through the air as fear ripped the courage right out of men's chests.

Debris rained down with every movement. Chunks of Moistvile's ruined structures were flung like toys, smashing into the battlefield with thunderous impacts that flattened anyone unlucky enough to be underneath.

Then came another arm. It tore free from the mire with a sickening surge, dragging more of the landscape with it. Whole sections of ground collapsed inward, sucking in screaming soldiers who vanished into the abyss below.

Finn stumbled back, eyes wide, unable to blink.

The creature's arms weren't flesh alone—they were caked with rot. Mud, slime, decomposed filth clung to them, and tangled within the muck were skeletal remains, as if the swamp itself had stitched together this abomination.

And still, its full body hadn't emerged.

The abomination's reveal sent waves of pure panic across the battlefield. As any sane person would, soldiers, adventurers, villagers alike scrambled backward, desperate to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the monster.

Those caught by the creature's massive, emerging arms clung desperately to the earth, fingers digging into mud and rubble. Some tried to help, only to be pulled down themselves, vanishing into the churning abyss below.

Men and women collided, tripping over one another, shoving to carve out a chance at survival. The blessing that had once turned the tide of battle vanished in an instant, like a candle snuffed out by a gust of wind.

Finn stumbled backward, heart hammering. This wasn't just bad. This was catastrophic. If the crowd panicked too much, they'd crush themselves—and drag all the mages and archers down with them. Everyone they needed to keep fighting, especially Finn, was in danger.

Then the earth trembled violently, forcing everyone down onto knees or flat onto the dirt.

And finally, the creature revealed its head.

Finn froze. Breath caught in his throat. Every muscle locked. His stomach lurched. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his feet felt glued to the mud, his heart hammering in a rhythm that promised only panic and regret.

And then—they made eye contact.

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