Starting with Frieren

Her golden hair cascaded to her waist, and her long, pointed ears resembled Frieren's. Her half-lidded eyes conveyed a languid disinterest, as if nothing could spark her curiosity.

Her loose robe, while plain, looked extremely comfortable.

"Long time no see, Teacher. You haven't changed at all," Flamme said, kneeling on one knee.

Frieren followed suit without a word, casting a glance at the dazed Ivan beside her.

Undead from another world? What did that mean?

"The flow of time in the outside world really is fast," Serie mused. "In the blink of an eye, a disciple I casually accepted on a whim has come to visit me, and she's even brought her own disciple. One of them is an elf, too. Quite skilled. If you want to learn magic, I can directly transfer some to you."

Frieren replied calmly, "No need. The joy of magic lies in discovering and learning it yourself."

"Tch, just as I thought. No ambition at all."

Serie descended from her throne gracefully. Her delicate, pale feet touched the ground without gathering a speck of dust. With light and effortless steps, she stopped in front of Ivan. Despite being much shorter, her gaze carried the weight of someone looking down from above.

"Hey, Ivan, why are you zoning out again? Kneel!" Flamme whispered urgently.

Snapped out of his thoughts, Ivan finally responded, "Where I come from, kneeling on one knee is typically reserved for proposals or pledging allegiance… Wait a second."

Like a detective struck by sudden inspiration, Ivan's thoughts raced. A beam of light seemed to pierce through his brain.

"May I ask a bold question: between you and the Demon King, who is stronger?"

"Naturally, I am," Serie said with a proud smile. "Why? Are you considering switching sides and becoming my disciple?"

In that instant, Ivan's mind raced with possibilities. Originally, his insignificant strength was no match for the world-ending power of the Demon King—he'd be crushed like a bug. But now… here was perhaps a once-in-a-lifetime chance to secure a cheat-level advantage to defeat the Demon King.

But being just her disciple wouldn't be enough to guarantee her intervention. After all, Flamme was already her disciple, and if she were willing to fight the Demon King for a disciple's sake, she would've done so already.

Ivan needed to forge a deeper bond.

Without hesitation, Ivan dropped to one knee and clasped his hands together. "Ivan, a wanderer adrift in life, without a guiding light. If you would not abandon me, I am willing to take you as my sworn mother!"

"Sworn mother… sworn mother… mother… mother…"

Ivan's booming voice echoed through the massive chamber, leaving Serie, Flamme, and Frieren in stunned silence. Particularly Serie and Frieren, whose ≡ω≡ expressions were oddly synchronized, as if this reaction was an elf-specific way of showing emotion.

"I… have no interest in propagating offspring, nor do I intend to accept a sworn child," Serie said, her tone flat.

"But my sincerity is as clear as the heavens above!" Ivan protested passionately. "Even elves grow old eventually, don't they? Having a child to care for you in your later years is surely necessary!"

Ivan's inner thoughts were pure and sincere, and definitely not influenced by any strange narratives like My Loli Elf Mom he'd read in the past.

Serie's eye twitched. This was her first encounter with someone so persistent about becoming her "child."

"Humans live a mere century, if that. How could someone so fleeting provide care for someone like me, who is nearly eternal?"

"Hmph, mere lifespan differences mean nothing before my unwavering devotion!"

"...I don't like sons," Serie said with a slight smirk. "If you change your gender, I might consider it."

Sexism?!

"How can you assume my gender?!" Ivan retorted instinctively. "In fact, while biologically male, I've always perceived myself as a woman at heart. So even without a physical change, I can still be considered female."

"…"

Even Serie, who had lived through eons, was momentarily dumbfounded. Her silence stretched for a few seconds.

Meanwhile, Flamme subtly reached for her staff, mentally preparing to shield Ivan from whatever divine punishment might befall him.

"Don't worry, Flamme," Serie said finally. "I don't attack the weak. But since reasoning seems futile, there's only one way to settle this. If you wish to be my 'descendant,' you'll have to defeat me. After all, if a descendant can't surpass me, what value do they have?"

Serie placed her hand on Ivan's head.

"Relax. I won't bully you with my overwhelming mana. What we'll test is the essence of magic itself: imagination. If I win, you'll drop that ridiculous notion. If you win, I'll grant you any one wish."

"A contest of imagination?" Ivan's eyes gleamed. "That's exactly what I was hoping for."

"Hahaha! Confident, are we? An undead from another world. I hope you'll give me a reason to get serious for once," Serie said, her expression gradually shifting to one of eager excitement as a radiant light bloomed in her hands.

Ivan reflexively shut his eyes against the brightness. When he opened them again, he found himself standing on an expansive plain. The grass beneath him was a vivid purple, the sky overhead a dull gray, devoid of wind, sound, or even the hum of insects. The oppressive silence only heightened the eerie atmosphere.

"This is an ancient battlefield from the Mythical era," Serie explained. "It's saturated with mana beyond anything the outside world can imagine. The versions of us standing here are only fragments of our souls, and we've brought no mana of our own. However, you can freely draw upon the mana of this field as if it were your own."

She continued, "Even if your soul fragment is destroyed here, it won't significantly harm your original body. You'll recover fully in no time."

Ivan raised a cautious hand. "Um… How long is 'no time,' exactly?"

"Only about ten years of sleep."