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Chapter 552: The Supermagic

The demon looked up.

The next moment, Maggie landed on it from a height that made the earth shudder.

Nightingale felt the impact through her boots. She thought—distantly, still clutching her wound—that an ordinary person crushed that way would never rise again.

“Stomp it to death!” Leaf shouted from the ground, both fists clenched.

“Bite it! Whip it with your tail!” Iffy was on her feet, voice raw with excitement.

Maggie howled in triumph and put Agatha down—then, between one breath and the next, shrank back into a small girl and sat in the dirt with the baffled expression of someone who had lost the thread of a dream.

“A Supermagic!”

Agatha’s voice cut through everything. She was already moving—a lance of ice erupted from the ground and caught the demon in the flank, sending it crashing through two trees. She followed without breaking stride, froze its feet to the earth in a casing of pale blue crystal, and turned back to shout: “Now!”

Maggie shook herself, pulled her pistol, and fired. One shot, then another, then a steady rhythm. Nightingale bit the inside of her cheek, reloaded, and let Iffy haul her upright. Together they closed the distance. The demon’s Magic Barrier flared in answer, bright against the armor—then sputtered and dimmed. The red glow in its eyes stuttered.

Then, without making contact, it roared and flung its hand in Agatha’s direction. She flew backward as though struck. The ice around the demon’s feet dissolved. It lurched upright and staggered north, seeking the tree line.

“Don’t let it go! Maggie—!”

“Let me.” Leaf had the Sigil of God’s Will in her hands—Anna’s hands had let it fall when she fainted. She had spent less power than the others; the Sigil’s stones recognized the difference. She pushed everything she had left into the frame and the woods went gold a second time.

The demon turned toward the light. It made a sound unlike any it had made before—not rage, not hunger—closer to disbelief.

The golden thunder struck.

This time it did not survive.


“Is it dead?” Nightingale’s voice came out smaller than she intended.

“Only half the armor’s left.” Maggie dragged the remnant back, tail-first. It was black and smeared and barely recognizable. “It wasn’t as tough as we thought.”

Lightning was found beneath the canopy—fallen from middling height when the demon’s black wave had robbed her of flight, slowed by branches on the way down, concussed but breathing, a lump rising above her ear. She was more upset about missing the fight than about the injury. After verifying that everyone still lived, she folded her arms and announced she would find Brian and send him back with soldiers, then was gone.

“You survived,” Agatha said. “That is remarkable.”

“Yeah.” Nightingale pressed one hand against her waist and heaved a breath. “I don’t know how I tell His Majesty that one demon put all of us on the ground.”

“No, Nightingale.” Agatha shook her head. “This wasn’t an ordinary victory. That demon was a Supermagic.”

The word fell heavy.

“A Supermagic?” Leaf asked. “What does that mean?”

“That several Senior Witches together could face a Senior Demon—but not a Supermagic. Only the Three Chiefs could meet one as equals.” Agatha paused. “The Union paid in blood to learn that.”

The witches were quiet.

“What abilities does a Supermagic have?” Iffy asked.

“It’s a title, not a specific power.” Agatha’s voice shifted to the register she used when thinking aloud. “Every Senior Demon carries multiple abilities—different from witches, who awaken into what they’re given. A demon that led assaults on Taquila for decades was once observed to develop two entirely new Magic Cyclones within a handful of years. Two new abilities in the time it takes a human child to learn to read. No one ever understood how they did it. Demons seem to take to magic the way water takes to stone—inevitably, completely. A Supermagic isn’t defined by which abilities it has but by a particular threshold: when a Senior Demon becomes powerful enough to generate effects similar to a God’s Stone.”

Nightingale heard the floor drop out from under the sentence. “It can suppress magic power?”

Interfere with it,” Agatha corrected. “More precise. A Supermagic can push through the suppression of a God’s Stone of Retaliation. It can block or weaken magical attacks, dissolve sustained effects, interrupt power mid-use. For witches—of any kind—it is the worst possible opponent.”

“I don’t understand,” Iffy said. “How is that not a special ability?”

“Because it augments every ability the demon already has rather than adding a new one.” Agatha folded her hands. “Take Anna. If she were a Supermagic, her Blackfire would burn through the God’s Stone’s field and still hit its mark—and simultaneously, everything near the Blackfire would become an interference zone, disrupting other magic in the area. Unless her opponent were also a Supermagic.”

Nightingale was already reconstructing the fight in memory—the black hole in the demon’s palm, the total absence of light when it raised its Magic Barrier, the way she had simply stopped when it caught her through the Mist. No shimmer. No warning glow. The Sigil had struck it and it had walked out of the smoke.

She described it to Agatha and asked: “Is that why the first strike didn’t kill it?”

“Probably.” Agatha shrugged. “But I can’t be certain. I’ve never encountered a Supermagic. The Union left no record of a Sigil of God’s Will being used against one.”

“So the Three Chiefs defeated Supermagics by pure strength.”

“Exactly. Extraordinaries shine on a battlefield—to demons, they are something like what sunlight is to frost. And Transcendents are the center of that sun.” Agatha’s voice softened, just slightly. “If you had seen Alice fight, it would have stayed with you the rest of your life.”

Nightingale was quiet for a moment. “Counting the Three Chiefs, there were only three Transcendents in the entire Union. Did no witch ever evolve into something comparable to a Supermagic?”

“Not that I know of. And none will.” Agatha said it without cruelty. “Witches and demons have different natures. Any number of Mad Demons can evolve into Senior Demons over time—but no matter how long or hard we practice, most of us will never reach what Alice was. We are what we awaken into.”

Maggie had been picking through the demon’s remains with the focused attention of a bird hunting seeds. She straightened up holding a small black box. “What’s this?”

Agatha took it and tried the lid. “Locked.”

“Let me.” Nightingale looked at the box through the Mist, tracked the silhouette until it distorted, slid her fingers into the seam between states of matter, and drew out the contents.

Several stones struck the dirt, catching the light.

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