From the moment Polaris decided to cast everything aside and forge herself into something greater, she had lived on a deserted island in the northern reaches of the Demon Realm. It was a barren place, close to the Land of Death, where she brought only the absolute barest essentials.
Most living creatures shunned the island due to its proximity to that desolate territory, which made it the perfect environment for self-discipline. Knowing that the Land of Death ruled by Isis was just across the water served as a constant anchor for her motivation.
At the time, Polaris did not possess the strength to even set foot in those lands. But she told herself that was a limitation of the present, not a prophecy of the future. With that conviction, her challenge against her own mediocrity began.
The first step of her training was to master healing magic. Since she was not blessed with natural aptitude, high-level spells were beyond her reach; it took several years of grueling study just to manage a few low-level incantations.
Once she had that foundation, her true training began.
Her method was horrifyingly simple. She would train her body without rest or sleep until it literally shattered, then use her healing magic to stitch the pieces back together. She repeated this cycle relentlessly, believing that she first needed to build a foundation of raw physical ability that surpassed all reason.
It was an absurd regimen—one that any observer would have called pure insanity.
She would use magic to place crushing burdens on her entire frame and, quite literally, swing her fists with everything she had until her arms tore away. When they failed, she would cast low-level healing magic until she was whole again, all while swinging her legs until they, too, snapped under the strain.
Years, decades, centuries, and millennia passed as she continued this dogged, singular pursuit.
The wall of talent has crushed more souls than there are stars in the sky. For the "have-nots," that barrier stands impossibly high and appallingly resilient. Even if one manages to scrape and claw their way over, an even taller wall inevitably waits on the other side. Most who walk that path eventually stop, fall to their knees, and accept that they have reached their limit.
But Polaris refused to yield. She slammed her fists into the very walls that had broken the spirits of so many others. Her bones shattered, her skin tore, and she coughed up blood, yet she never stopped striking.
As if to declare that she would not allow something as trivial as "talent" to dictate her path, she rained blows upon the unbreakable barrier.
It was a dull, thankless grind with no immediate rewards. Whenever her body broke and was mended by magic, her physical form changed ever so slightly, absorbing the magic power into her muscles and bones. But the progress was infinitesimal. She would break every inch of herself and repair it, only to gain perhaps a tenth of a percentage point in raw performance.
If someone were told to spend every waking hour writing a single letter on a page just to strengthen their arm, how many could endure it? A minute is easy. An hour is tedious. After ten hours, most would quit. If asked to do it for a day, a month, a year, or a decade—would anyone remain? Could anyone truly find the will to stack grains of sand for a lifetime when more efficient methods surely existed?
Polaris could. Ten years brought no visible results. A hundred years passed without her feeling any stronger. Even after a thousand years, there was no sign that the wall of talent was cracking.
Yet she never faltered. Her obsession had crossed into the realm of madness. If one were to be kind, they might say her only true talent—her greatest gift—was her frightening mental fortitude and her ability to endure the infinite grind.
She lived without food or sleep, her days consumed by the cycle of destruction and rebirth. Little by little, the tiny changes began to accumulate into something undeniable.
After a thousand years, she became capable of maintaining healing magic while training simultaneously.
After two thousand years, her body became so resilient that simple training could no longer break it. She learned low-level attack magic and began firing it at herself to test and temper her durability.
After three thousand years, healing magic alone couldn't expend her growing pool of mana. She began maintaining a powerful barrier around the entire island just to vent her excess energy.
After four thousand years, her magic power finally swelled into the realm of a high-ranking demon.
After five thousand years, her fists began to move faster than the sound they produced.
After six thousand years, her footsteps shattered the earth so violently she had to cast barriers beneath her feet just to remain standing.
After seven thousand years, she could unleash a constant barrage of attack spells on herself while maintaining multiple barriers at full power without ever running dry of mana.
And after eight thousand years, a subordinate of the Phantasm King arrived to inform her that her power officially met the standards of a Baron-class high-ranking demon.
She had spent eight millennia in a state of perpetual self-destruction. She had finally smashed the first wall of talent. Yet Polaris felt no joy, no triumph. She simply went back to her training.
The Peerage-class was a title craved by nearly every soul in the Demon Realm, but to her, it was irrelevant. She didn't care about rank. While the title might have allowed her to finally approach Isis and offer the thanks and apologies she had carried for so long, the stakes had changed.
She had vowed to offer her entire existence to the King of Death—the woman with the kind, sorrowful eyes. If that was her goal, she couldn't afford to stop at such a lowly peak.
Polaris reached for the distant, dark moon. She wanted a future where she could serve at her Savior's side. Nothing else mattered. One wall had fallen, but many more remained.
A massive naginata, trailing a wake of blue magic power, swung in a lethal arc. It struck the neck of a woman wearing a white robe and a pointed hat. The impact rang out like clashing steel. The naginata was repelled, leaving only a faint scratch on the woman’s neck that vanished an instant later.
The wielder of the naginata—Epsilon the Absolute Ice, one of the Five War Generals—paused her assault, an impressed expression crossing her face.
"My blade barely draws blood... such incredible density. I assume it is a powerful defense magic, but your concealment is flawless. I cannot even perceive the magic formula."
Polaris, the woman who looked like a simple witch, scratched her cheek awkwardly.
"Ah... no, I'm honored by the praise. But, how should I put this... as much as I appreciate the compliment, I'm not actually making it 'in time.' I can't really accept the credit for it."
Epsilon blinked. "Not making it in time?"
"To be blunt... I'm not using defense magic. I mean, I have a basic mana shroud active, but other than that..."
"What?"
"I'm not holding back, so please don't be offended. It's just that I haven't been in a real fight for about fifteen thousand years. I keep intending to activate my spells, but your attacks are so fast that I can't finish the incantation before you hit me. It's made me realize I'm desperately lacking in practical experience."
Polaris gave a strained smile. She wasn't lying. But if she was telling the truth, it meant something terrifying.
"You mean to say," Epsilon said, her voice dropping an octave, "that you have been taking my blade with your bare skin? I am astonished."
Epsilon's naginata was made of her own magic power, compressed into high-density matter. Its sharpness was absolute. It could slice through Orichalcum, the hardest natural mineral, like wet paper. To take a direct hit from that blade—backed by the strength of the top-ranked Count-class demon—and suffer only a scratch meant that Polaris's physical durability was fundamentally broken.
Epsilon had felt a sense of incongruity since the start of the duel. She had originally come to recruit Polaris into the War King's service. When the offer was declined, Polaris had requested a sparring match to test herself against a true master.
As one of the Five War Generals, Epsilon was a master of martial arts whose name was known even to children. She could usually gauge an opponent's talent and potential within a few exchanges. Yet, after ten minutes of combat—which, at their speed, accounted for over ten thousand exchanges—she still couldn't grasp the nature of the woman before her.
In fact, she couldn't understand why the fight was even possible.
There was no doubt that Polaris was a powerhouse at the absolute peak of the Count-class. But Epsilon’s instincts as a warrior screamed that the woman before her was someone who should never have been able to stand on this stage.
To put it plainly, Polaris had no talent. She was mediocre. She was the kind of person who, even with the most desperate effort, might have reached the level of a high-ranking demon if a miracle occurred—but never the Peerage-class. Yet, here she was.
"You..." Epsilon whispered. "How many times have you exceeded your limits? How many times have you walked through hell?"
Epsilon finally arrived at the answer. The secret to Polaris's strength was her flesh itself. Epsilon surmised that Polaris's body had been destroyed and rebuilt so many times that the number was beyond comprehension.
Each time the body mended, it absorbed the magic power of the healing spells, growing marginally stronger. It was a change so small it was effectively a rounding error. Ten times wouldn't show a result. A hundred times wouldn't even register. But it wasn't zero. Polaris had never stopped. She had never knelt. She had continued to throw herself against the wall until the grains of sand she collected became a desert that buried the very concept of "limits."
"Limits? I’m afraid I don't recall encountering those," Polaris replied. "And I don't remember any hell. I've broken a few annoying walls that were in my way, but that's about it."
Epsilon understood then. The woman before her was indeed a mediocrity, but she was also a transcender who had shattered the natural laws of growth through effort alone. If a hundred efforts weren't enough, she gave a thousand. If a thousand failed, she gave ten thousand.
A monster of effort who refused to stop.
"Magnificent! Truly, this is the pinnacle of self-refinement! I thank the stars for the luck of meeting you!"
"You don't look very thankful," Polaris noted.
Epsilon let out an exhilarated laugh, her smile turning into a predatory grin. Two horns of ice manifested on her forehead, and blue flames ignited in her eyes.
"This is becoming far too much fun. However... we have been fighting a bit too flashily."
Epsilon glanced toward the ocean surrounding the island—or rather, toward the presence lurking at the seabed. She sent a telepathic message to the being who ruled those waters: Eingana, one of the Four Great Magic Dragons.
I assume you are watching, Eingana-dono. I understand you cannot overlook damage to the Dragon King's territory, but I ask you to turn a blind eye for just one more move.
The water's surface rippled slightly before falling still. The presence slowly receded.
"Now then, Polaris-dono," Epsilon said. "You are a magnificent warrior. If I could, I would fight until our last drop of strength is gone, but I have duties to attend to. Let us settle this with the next strike."
"That works for me," Polaris agreed. "I've learned what I needed to work on for the future."
Epsilon dispelled her naginata. Her horns glowed with a pale light, and gauntlets of ice formed over her fists.
"I have a specific aesthetic when it comes to battle," Epsilon declared. "I only offer my true name to those worthy of seeing my full strength. Consider it a vow to hold nothing back."
Polaris straightened her posture.
"Then... my species is Ice Ogre. My true name is Ixnilva. I come at you with the full weight of my soul!"
"I suppose it's only polite to reciprocate," Polaris said. "My species is Witch. My name is Polaris. I accept your challenge!"
They lunged. On that desolate, uninhabited island, fist met fist with the force of a falling star.
Later that night, as she gazed up at the stars from her silent island, Polaris whispered to the wind.
"Why? I have obtained the strength to serve you... so why is it that in every future I see, you are still crying? Is my power still not enough? My time has not yet come... and yet, more than anything, I wish to be by your side."
The stars shone with a cold, brilliant light, but the moon Polaris sought remained hidden behind the clouds.