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“So, he was a target…?” Marcy clicked her tongue, surveying the wreckage of Michael’s blown-up house. Royal Guards had just finished carrying away the lifeless body of Michael’s father.

“It appears so,” Amoria replied, her tone thoughtful as her eyes scanned the ruins. “Hmm…”

“What is it?” Marcy asked, turning to her, concern flickering in her voice.

“Why blow up the house?” Amoria murmured, half to herself.

“To… Hm. Maybe whoever did it noticed he saw something and wanted to silence him?”

Amoria shook her head slightly. “Then why not just control him, like you suggested, Marcy? Besides, Michael would’ve told us if he’d seen anything. If he didn’t, why go this far?”

“This feels more like… tying up loose ends,” Amoria said finally, stepping carefully through the scorched remains of the house. Ashes crumbled underfoot as she approached what was once Michael’s room.

“Loose ends?!” Marcy’s eyes flared with anger. “You don’t mean to suggest that—”

“It’s an option,” Amoria interrupted grimly, her tone detached as she sifted through the rubble with her eyes. Her voice dropped into a clinical coldness, like a surgeon examining a patient’s chart.

“He has a motive—a powerful one. Your daughter’s affection… and mine. Or perhaps even their physical companionship. Not much to lose, considering his deadbeat of a father—drowning himself in grief and ale over a woman who abandoned him, instead of caring for the son who didn’t.”

Marcy stiffened, her jaw tightening at the suggestion. Amoria continued her cold assessment, unbothered, as the ruined house offered no answers, only silence.

“His father was a drunkard..?” Marcy let out.

“Yes. You never visited his house, so you wouldn’t know. After his wife left, seeing him sober was rare.” Amoria said, her tone deadpan, her face appeared to be lifeless.

“That, and…” Amoria trailed off as her gaze landed on a faintly hidden mark—a circle burned into the wood, ashes scattered around it, as if the explosion had originated from that very spot.

“He wasn’t branded,” she said at last, motioning for Marcy to join her.

“Does this look familiar, Marcy?” Amoria asked, pointing at the mark.

Marcy’s eyes narrowed as she studied the mark. “…A trapped object. The kind Mika and Rika would craft. It could detonate either by touch…”

“…Or incantation,” Amoria finished grimly.

“And you’d only tie up loose ends if someone decides that—”

“—he no longer wants to be a part of it.” Their voices overlapped seamlessly as they locked eyes, realization hitting them at the same moment. Michael, now a potential suspect, was with their daughters.

“And this object… A circular mark like this is most definitely a—”

“SLAVE MARK!” Marcy blurted, her breath hitching sharply.

“We need to get back to the guild. Now,” Amoria commanded, her tone clipped with urgency.

Without hesitation, they turned and bolted back the way they came, their boots pounding against the ground as dread sank deeper into their chests.

Van sighed softly as he walked the streets, keeping his gaze low to avoid the eyes of the passing residents.

“Haah…” he exhaled again, frustration lacing his breath.

‘I’ve gotten used to it somewhat… This light around everyone. But it still irks me.’ His thoughts simmered as he approached the guild—Marcy’s guild. His gaze flicked away from the glowing auras surrounding the people he passed, a constant, blinding distraction.

The guild’s entrance stood open for visitors, and he instinctively knew Marcy and Amoria were inside. But he didn’t hesitate.

He was ready.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something different. An aura that wasn’t bright or blinding. Instead, it resembled black smoke, twisting and trailing into the guild like ominous threads. Three distinct strands.

‘What’s this…?’ Van’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to the guild. The sight of the dark, writhing aura was unfamiliar, unsettling. He followed it through the main entrance, curiosity prickling his thoughts. ‘That’s a new one…’

Inside, a voice cut through the ambient noise.

“I was the one who branded them, Miss Misa,” someone said at the counter, the cold clunk of metal hitting wood following their words.

Van’s gaze snapped to the source of the voice. One of the black strands of smoke connected to the person’s inner thigh—a tether, faint yet unmistakable.

‘Branded…?’ The word echoed in his mind as he focused on the man standing at the counter.

It was Michael. He held something in his hand—a slave mark. Unlike the others, no aura surrounded it. No light. Just emptiness.

Misa, who stood behind the counter, chimed in, her eyes widening in disbelief as they landed on the mark.

Her gaze then flicked to Van, who had just walked in. Alarm filled her expression as she stared at him.

“…?”

A bit later…

“I see. So something like that happened,” Van sighed, his tone weary as he listened to Misa. They stood in a small, dimly lit room, Michael bound tightly by rope, with Misa’s sharp, watchful gaze fixed on him.

Van’s eyes flicked briefly to Misa, scrutinizing her with quiet intensity.
‘Her aura’s… different,’ he thought, noticing a faint pink cloud surrounding her head. ‘What is that? It’s denser around the eyes… almost like it’s blinding her. What could it mean?’

His gaze lingered for a moment longer, narrowing slightly in thought, before her voice snapped him out of it.

“Yes. You should hurry and let your father know, Van. Who knows who else might be susceptible to it,” she said coldly, her words cutting through his focus.

‘Guess I’ll prod later,’ Van decided, brushing aside his curiosity for the time being. ‘She seems fine… for now.’

She paused, her expression hardening as her eyes narrowed at him. “Though… maybe it’s best that you stay here,” she added, her suspicion now unmistakable.

“At least until Amoria and Marcy get here,” she said sharply.

‘I feel there’s something suspicious about him. And the fact he walked in here the moment Michael confessed to it… he must be involved. Bastard… doing something like that to Anne and Miss Elizabeth. I don’t care if your father is related to them. You’ll face Miss Amoria’s and Miss Marcy’s wrath. I won’t let you leave, no matter what. But I must be prepared,’ her gaze darkened as she scrutinized Van, who appeared casual and weary. ‘Since he’s connected, he’ll try to argue his way out of this—’

“Sure. I’ll stay. I wanted to talk to them either way,” Van interrupted, his tone nonchalant as he let out a subtle eyeroll.

‘W… Was that an eyeroll!?’ Misa’s thoughts froze as she was taken aback by his casualness, her suspicion only deepening. ‘What was that about!? And he doesn’t even seem the slightest bit bothered by the mention of them!?’

“May I sit here?” Van asked, pointing to a chair within her immediate view.

“…” A moment of silence lingered as Misa hesitated, unsure what to make of him.

“… Seeing as you’re staying here, I don’t see why not,” she finally huffed, her tone guarded as Van took the seat next to Michael.

‘W-… What’s he doing here!?’ Michael thought, his gaze flickering nervously to Van, panic flashing in his eyes.

“So,” Van said after a few seconds, breaking the silence and startling Michael.

“You lost your dad, I hear?” Van spoke casually, his tone almost indifferent.

‘Why is he talking to me like we’re close friends!?’ Michael wondered, his brow furrowing at the question. He hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

“….”

“… Sorry to hear,” Van added, his voice calm but piercing.

Michael flinched. ‘What…!? Why’s he saying that to me…!? Shouldn’t he hate me? Scream at me? Want to kill me for hurting Anne and Lizzy? So you really don’t care about them, huh!?’ Michael’s teeth sank into his lower lip as his thoughts churned.

‘No… I know. I know what I have to do. You being here… the way Misa looks at you… I know what to do.’ A dark gleam flickered in Michael’s eyes.

‘Bernard taught me. If I want to get what I want… playing nice is how you get trampled.’ His mind flashed to the memory of Van’s arm draped around Lizzy’s shoulder, the image burning into him. His father’s broken murmurs of his mother’s name instead of his own as he died echoed in his mind like a curse.

‘I’ll put you in the ground to elevate myself.’

“It was a good plan, master. Too bad we got caught…” Michael finally said, his voice low and tinged with venom.

Misa’s eyes widened in rage as she glared at Van, who looked more disappointed and tired than flustered or scared.

“Before you attack me, Misa,” Van said calmly, as if anticipating her fury. His gaze, however, trailed to the hallway outside the door, where he noticed two more traces of black smoke weaving into another room in the guild.

His eyes narrowed. “Who are the two people in the next room?” he asked, his voice sharp.

“YOU BASTARD…!!” Misa roared, her fists trembling with anger.

“You’d know, Master…” Michael interjected, his tone unreadable.

Van turned his relaxed gaze toward Michael, still bound tightly in rope.

“It’s Anne and Lizzy. The ones you told me to brand,” Michael said coldly, a slight edge to his voice.

“Thanks,” Van replied curtly. Without hesitation, he grabbed Michael by the shirt collar and leaped through the nearby window, the glass shattering into a cascade of shards.

“NO…!!” Misa screamed, her voice echoing as she vaulted after them in desperation.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” Michael’s terrified scream pierced the air, the wind and shards of glass tearing at him during their rapid descent.

‘This confirms it. The black smoke… they’re all branded as slaves. That includes this kid. And the fact that the slave mark he held no longer has an aura means it’s useless. In which case… this black smoke… must lead somewhere. I guess whoever commands them?’ Van thought, his focus razor-sharp as he landed with a powerful thud and immediately began sprinting in the direction of the smoke.

Within seconds, Van had already lost Misa’s trail.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Michael screamed, his voice cracking as he flailed behind Van.

‘Whoever branded Lizzy and Anne… shouldn’t have done that with me around,’ Van thought, his eyes narrowing as his speed intensified, Michael’s body helplessly dragged behind him.

“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! PLEASE LET ME GO!! AHHH!!!!” Michael shrieked, his breath coming in frantic gasps.

‘He’s so strong…!! What is this…!? HE EVEN OUTRAN MISA…!!?’ Michael thought, his mind spinning as he struggled to catch his breath, fear gripping him.

For a moment, there was only the sound of Van’s relentless footsteps pounding against the ground and the rushing wind. Then, breaking the silence, Van spoke.

“—- —, —–, — — — —,” he said, his voice calm, gaze fixed straight ahead.

“!?????????????” Michael didn’t catch what Van said, the words drowned by the deafening air pressure blasting in his ears.

‘Time to end this stupid arc,’ Van thought, his expression hardening as he reached the massive gates of the Von Brayle mansion. Without breaking stride, he kicked them with explosive force, the impact sending them flying open with a deafening echo that reverberated across the sprawling estate grounds.

“AN INTRUDER—” a guard shouted, but Van dashed past them in a single blur. The sheer force of the air pressure knocked them over like dominos. Without hesitation, he barreled straight into Bernard’s mansion, kicking the massive wooden doors. The impact sent them flying open with a thunderous crash, wood splintering and echoing through the halls.

‘Another strand… there’s someone else branded,’ Van noticed, his sharp eyes tracking the black smoke twisting through the hallway.

‘Hm… maybe I should wear a helmet. Just until I’m done here,’ he thought, glancing at a decorative display. With one hand, he plucked a metal helmet from the stand and placed it on his head, all while still dragging Michael, who dangled helplessly in his other grip.

‘Haaah… HAA… ARE WE…!? IN BERNARD’S PLACE!!? WHAT!!!? THIS IS ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE CAPITAL!!?’ Michael’s frantic breaths were labored as panic consumed him.

‘What is he planning to do…!? How DID he know to come here!? Is he… with him!? Could they be working together!?’ Michael’s mind spiraled as Van continued sprinting, his focus locked on the strands of black smoke leading deeper into the mansion.

Van skidded to a halt as he approached a door where the smoke seeped through the cracks. He flung it open just as someone else pushed it open from the opposite end.

“Ah.”

Standing in the doorway was Bernard. Behind him was Melanie, dressed in a maid outfit, her wide eyes betraying her fear. Black smoke curled and trailed from her body to Bernard’s, coiling ominously toward his outstretched palm.

Van’s gaze lowered to Bernard’s hand, where four branded circles glowed faintly, each one tethered to a trail of smoke.

“So, it’s you,” Van said coolly. “The blind braille kid.”

Bernard’s expression didn’t register Van’s words immediately. But the sound of Van’s voice snapped something inside him. His eyes flared with unrestrained fury.

“THAT VOICE…!!! VAN!!! IT’S YOU, ISN’T IT!? THAT ARMORED FUCK WHO DARED TO DISRESPECT ME!!!?” Bernard roared, his voice reverberating through the hall.

Behind him, Melanie’s breath hitched audibly, her body frozen in place as she clutched her trembling hands together.

‘Lalyn’s kid is here too; and she’s also branded… Damn it.’ Van clicked his tongue, his gaze narrowing at Bernard.

‘Alright, kid. Doing adult crimes? Prepare for adult consequences.’ Van decided.

“Where’s Ami?” Van asked as he descended the stairs.

“Oh, she was very tired. She told us to tell you she went back to her room,” Sylva replied softly.

“Speaking of which… My Lady, we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Vaelthir sighed as he stood and offered Sylva his hand, gently leading her toward the exit.

“Oh, but…” Sylva glanced back at Van, hesitating, but Vaelthir’s steady grip guided her away. Before long, they were gone.

‘I guess I’ll come back later when I can talk to him.’ Sylva thought as the door closed behind her.

“I need to train. I’ve been idle for too long,” Savathon declared abruptly, standing and leaving without another word.

“I’ll take my leave as well. My smithy needs tending,” Arnolt said with a tired sigh, rising to his feet. As he passed Van, he paused for a moment.

“Brat,” he muttered, leaning closer. “We formed a party, so till we meet again, don’t share anything about what happened. Considering the Goddess herself wants you dead—or whatever that thing that overtook Unicus was—we need to tread carefully. Be cautious about who you trust with this.”

His gruff words lingered as he walked away, leaving Van alone with his thoughts.

“…”

‘Good strategy. I suppose I can’t share too much with Amoria… Tsk, just when I’d decided to spill everything,’ Van thought with a shake of his head.

‘No,’ he resolved, clenching his fists. ‘I WILL tell her who I married. That has nothing to do with what these guys decided.’

Turning to Belial and Mirias, he broke the silence.

“What about you two? What will you do?” Van asked, his tone steady but edged with weariness.

“I’ll settle here and catch a nap; seeing as we’ve already rented the place. Following you leads to interesting stuff, but that can come after I lay down,” Belial said with a yawn.

“It has been a long journey. Let us go upstairs,” Mirias said.

“I’m too tired… Carry me,” Belial added, slumping into his chair.

“… Very well.” Without hesitation, she effortlessly hoisted Belial into a princess carry. The act drew several stares and whispers from the tavern’s patrons as Belial sprawled lazily in her grasp.

“Then, you know where to find us, Hellix,” she nodded before leaving the tavern.

‘I guess that frees me to talk to Anne and then Amoria and the rest. Time to end this,’ Van thought with a huff as he turned to leave.

“STINKIN’ BRAT! Don’t think you get to leave!” Galdo, the tavern owner, called out, stopping Van in his tracks.

“We need to talk. You ain’t leaving until you spill about your relationship with Ami—”

“With all due respect,” Van said, spinning around with a profound eye roll, his expression lazy and exasperated, “go fuck yourself, you shitty dwarf. That’s not your business. If you’re so desperate to talk, do so when I’m back.” He turned away again, his words earning audible gasps from the patrons.

“Why, YOU…!!” Galdo growled, his face contorting in anger.

“That’s it,” the dwarf snarled, stomping toward Van. “I’ve been holding back because of that girl, but you’ve just crossed the line—”

Van’s hand shot out, gripping Galdo by the throat. His face twisted with rage as he lifted the struggling dwarf off the ground, glaring into his eyes.

“I’m fucking done. Done with you. Done with this fucking city. Done with everyone. I’ve just saved the girl you oh-so-dearly care about, and that’s what you have to say? Call me names? Order me around!?” Van growled, his voice trembling with fury as his grip tightened.

“Gaaaahhh!!!” Galdo writhed and struggled, his gruff hands clawing at Van’s arm in a desperate attempt to break free.

‘It’s like… I’m wrestling with a metal statue! I can’t break free!’

“HEY, LET GALDO GO!!” A patron shouted, but Van’s glare silenced them as he lifted the dwarf higher into the air. Galdo’s legs flailed helplessly.

“I bet you stormed up here thinking I’d need to summon my spirit, huh? That I’d need protection? That maybe you could blow off some steam by pushing me around!” Van roared, his grip tightening around Galdo’s neck.

“I CAN’T BE FUCKED WITH. Not by you, not by anyone!” he growled, his voice trembling with unrestrained fury.

Memories flooded his mind: walking into the city and being underestimated until his prowess was revealed, the sisters accusing him of apathy, their bitter goodbyes, Marcy treating him as a replacement for Magus, Amoria warning him to stay away, the angry mob… and Galdo’s insults, his constant disrespect, shouting at him just a day ago.

All of it crashed down on him at once, blurring his vision with frustration and rage.

“Tearing your fucking arm off would be like pinching the wing off a fly! I’M A GOD!” Van’s voice thundered through the tavern, his teeth clenched in a snarl. “Do you hear me? I’M TOO STRONG FOR YOU TO EVEN IMAGINE! None of you can do ANYTHING if I decided to destroy and kill every single one of you!”

“Someone call the GUARDS!!”

The urgent cry only stoked Van’s fury further.

“CALL THE GUARDS, AND I SNAP HIS FUCKING NECK!!” Van bellowed, his grip tightening until Galdo’s face turned crimson. Foam bubbled at the edges of the dwarf’s mouth as his struggles weakened.

The tavern fell deathly silent. The only sound was Galdo’s gasping coughs and the faint writhing of his body as Van’s fury filled the room like an oppressive storm.

“That’s more like it… Haha—”

“VAN, PLEASE, STOP!!” A voice cried out from the other end of the tavern.

Van froze, his breath hitching as he turned. Ami was rushing toward him, her hands trembling as they tugged at his arm.

“PLEASE… Please, don’t hurt him! Please…” she begged, her voice cracking, tears welling in her eyes.

Van’s body shook, his rage faltering as he looked down at her, still holding Galdo aloft.

“HURT HIM? YOU THINK I’D HURT HIM? YOU VOUCH FOR THAT PIECE OF SHIT?” Van barked, his eyes blazing as they bore into hers.

Ami gasped, her face paling as she stumbled back, fear spreading across her features like a shadow. Her horrified expression pierced Van like a dagger.

All at once, the fury drained out of him. The way she recoiled—as if he were a monster—struck him harder than any blow.

“…”

Van slowly released Galdo, letting him drop to the ground in a heap. The dwarf wheezed and coughed, clutching his throat.

“Of course,” Van said, his lips curling into an exhausted, bitter smile. “Of course you have that fucking face. Of course even you’d be scared of me.”

He let out a shaky breath, his voice breaking. “It affects you too, after all…”

Without another word, Van turned and staggered toward the tavern door. Behind him, Ami rushed to Galdo’s side as the dwarf collapsed, coughing violently and clutching his throat.

Van paused briefly, his gaze flicking back just enough to catch the sight of her kneeling by Galdo, her trembling hands hovering as she tried to help.

His grimace deepened, bitterness twisting through him.

“I’m done. I’m done with all of you. Fuck YOU,” he spat, his voice sharp and cutting. Without looking back, he shoved the door open and stepped out into the warm noon air.

The world spun around him, distorted by the weight of his anger, shame, and exhaustion. Eyes followed him. He felt their judgment, their disdain, like a thousand knives pressing into his back.

‘I need a helmet,’ he thought numbly. ‘Why did I leave my helmet in the forest? I need to buy a helmet… Haah…’

“Hey,” a lazy voice called from the stairwell outside the tavern.

“…”

Van turned slowly, his gaze heavy and guarded. Sitting on the steps was Belial, alone, watching him with a steady expression.

“Do you also have something to say!?” Van barked, clenching his fists and teeth, ready to defend himself.

“Nah.” Belial shrugged. “They deserved it. All of them.”

Van blinked, his shoulders loosening slightly.

A few moments of silence passed between them. Van swallowed, clearing his throat as if trying to process what Belial had just said.

“…What did you just say?”

“I heard it all,” Belial said, his tone steady but sharp.

“That fucking dwarf treated you like shit, and you tossed him around like he deserved. Then that girl—she was scared of you, wasn’t she? Even though you saved her? And seeing as she didn’t come out here with you, I’m guessing she ran straight back to help that shitter of a dwarf who started it all. Yeah,” he paused, his gaze unwavering, “good call putting him in his place.”

Van stared at him, his mind reeling. The world, which had been spinning moments ago, began to settle.

“I like getting shamed here for the shit I do,” Belial continued, his tone calm but steady.

“Because back home, no one called me out. Forget being shamed—those fuckers didn’t even see me. They gave me blind respect because of my bloodline, not for who I am or what I did. And now? They’re doing the same to you. Blind hatred instead of blind respect, but the same shit. They ignore everything you’ve done for them. Like they don’t even see you.”

Van’s breath hitched as Belial locked eyes with him. There was no mockery or derision in his gaze—just quiet, unflinching understanding.

“You did right by tossing that fucker around,” Belial said firmly. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Van’s breathing steadied as he looked at Belial, swallowing repeatedly.

“Yeah…” he murmured, his voice low, as his gaze dropped to the ground. He gave a few subtle nods, rubbing his temples as though trying to gather himself.

Turning away, his eyes drifted toward the scenery of the capital. A solitary tear slid down his cheek, escaping despite his efforts to hold it back. His expression remained stoic, neutral, even as his lips shifted slightly—an unconscious attempt to distract himself from the emotions threatening to surface.

With a swift motion, he raised a finger to his cheek, wiping the tear away before it could linger. A subtle sniffle followed as he cleared his throat, turning back to Belial with his face composed and controlled.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” Van said, his voice steady, though faintly hoarse.

Belial didn’t respond immediately. He simply sat there, his expression unreadable, offering no mocking remark or unnecessary comment.

“Shit, don’t mention it,” Belial finally said, breaking the silence. He stretched lazily before turning toward the stairs.

“I’mma check out for a few hours, see ya’.” he added casually, heading up without another word.

Van watched him leave, his gaze softening just slightly, before turning back to the quiet capital before him.

‘Huh,’ Van thought to himself as he turned around, no longer minding the stares from other people as he took a deep breath.

‘That’s a new one.’ He mused with an exhale.

“Now that I think about it…” Van thought, ignoring the message and scrolling over to his passive window. His eyes settled on the words: Seed of Darkness.

Passive: Seed of Darkness

Description:
You have been infected with an essence that permeates this world, known as the Void. This essence has manifested as the Seed of Darkness, now beginning to sprout within your heart.

Not to be confused with Void Energy—a force belonging solely to the Enlightened One, who exists beyond mortal and divine perception—this passive’s true nature and ultimate potential will likely remain beyond your understanding.

‘Like it was so far… But… What’s this? there’s something new to this…’

However… You have caught the Enlightened One’s attention. Maybe this passive shall evolve someday.

You are permitted access to its most basic form—diminished and refined across trillions of iterations to prevent it from rupturing your reality—known as Arcane, the foundational magical force of your world.

Effects:

Arcane Interaction:
You can interact with the Void’s refined essence, known as the Arcane—the energy upon which all magic in your world is based—as though it were tangible.

Aura Perception:
You can view auras and residual magic surrounding others. The colors of these auras correspond to the God influencing them, while their vibrancy reflects the deity’s strength over that individual.

Vision Beyond the Veil:
You can perceive the true forms of beings, seeing beyond their material appearances.

Glimpses of the Beyond:
You are capable of momentarily peering into realms beyond mortal comprehension.

[Additional Notes]

The Arcane stat cannot be directly increased. Its potency is tied to your mastery over yourself and the world around you. Should you falter and abandon your true self, the Seed of Darkness will consume you, erasing your existence as [The Being Veiled in Shadows] draws closer. Another wielder bears the Seed of Darkness—one in a far more advanced form.

‘The only new thing here is the mention of me catching the Enlightened One’s attention… Whoever that is. Why doesn’t the system elaborate on him? Is he like Buddha or something? And then there’s the being veiled in shadows that gets closer to me. Who’s he?’

[REMINDER: YOU HAVE YET TO PICK WHETHER YOU’LL BECOME A REALLY, REALLY STRONG GOD!]

The prompt popped up in front of his face.

[ACCEPT?!]

[no – you admit you’re an idiot.]

‘Speaking of the system… What am I supposed to do with this? It seems like it won’t leave me alone until I accept. Maybe I can just ignore it…?’

Van thought for a moment, then turned his attention to the Arcane Interaction mentioned in Seed of Darkness.

‘Hmm…’

He reached out to grab the reminder.

His palm passed straight through, like it was a hologram.

‘No luck, huh?’

[REMINDER: PRESS ACCEPT! OR I’LL JUST KEEP SPAMMING YOU!]

‘It’s not even pretending to be subtle anymore,’ Van sighed.

‘No. I can’t keep going like this, with it constantly popping up and disturbing my view.’

He stretched his hand toward the message again, this time enclosing it in his palm.

[ARE YOU TRYING TO PRESS ACCEPT?!]

[ACCEPT] [no]

Van closed his eyes, his mind drifting.

He thought about [Hard Swing].

‘You can swing stuff really hard with your hands.’

‘Stuff…’ He recalled how his Hard Swing skill had moved the armor during his fight with Kota.

‘Stuff.’ He repeated, remembering how Kota’s flesh and body had also counted as “stuff” that he could move.

Opening his eyes, he glared at the floating reminder, now fully encased in his hand.

“STUFF,” he muttered, his voice low but resolute.

Even if no one else could see it, he realized…

…It was tangible to him. Real to him.

A form of an object only he could perceive.

Hence…

…Stuff.

“[Hard Swing],” he growled, his palm glowing with the activation of the skill. He tightened his grip around the status window.

The prompt began to bend under his will.

[WAIT, STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOI—]

Van tightened his grip, feeling the system’s prompt glitch and warp beneath his palm. It stretched unnaturally, like a digital rubber band snapping in and out of reality. Distorted shapes and colors rippled through the air, the edges of the prompt flickering with static as if it were a broken hologram struggling to maintain form.

Lines of incomprehensible code flashed for a split second within the stretched prompt, spiraling in and out of his vision. It wasn’t just a visual effect—he could feel the weight of its resistance pushing back, as though he was pulling against the fabric of reality itself.

[UNAUTHORIZED ACTION DETECTED.]

[CEASE IMMEDIATELY, OR CONSEQUENCES WILL—ERROR!]

Van’s lips curled into a smirk.

‘Oh, fuck off with your consequences. I’d rather deal with those than put up with your spam any longer. Besides, if you’re the one spamming me and can’t do anything without my permission, I seriously doubt you’re telling the truth. Let’s be real—you can’t do shit, even if I went all in.’

With a low growl, he activated [Hard Swing] in his right palm, gripping the other side of the glitching prompt. His glowing hand slammed onto the warped surface, catching it firmly as the distortion writhed and twisted in his grasp.

The entire apartment trembled violently, wooden beams groaning as the floor beneath him quaked. Cracks spiderwebbed through the wooden walls, sending dust cascading down. The windows rattled furiously, and objects scattered across the room were swept into a chaotic whirlwind. Loose papers, books, and even furniture spiraled through the air as the force radiated outward.

Van, however, remained unaffected amidst the storm. His insane stats rendered the howling winds and shuddering ground little more than a nuisance. His focus was absolute as he pulled the glitching prompt apart, its strained edges flickering wildly with distorted static.

[WARNING: CRITICAL SYSTEM INTEGRITY BREACHED.]

[HALT IMMEDIATELY, OR—STOP!!! PLEASE, STOP! I GET IT!! sSTO3789%@569POP@ytgb(^@f(&]

Van paused, though his grip remained unyielding on what now appeared to be a tear in reality itself.

“I’m not crazy enough to completely break you apart. I don’t know what would happen, and I’d rather not take any more chances,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

The system’s message reappeared before him, its text distorted and glitching, almost timid. Triple dots flickered as though it were stunned into silence.

[…]

“But,” Van continued with an almost relaxed smile, “how about you don’t test me again, okay?”

The prompt quivered in response, its once-arrogant tone replaced by sheer desperation.

[OK&(^f(KAY, I WON’T! I’M SO SORRY, I WON’T SPAM YOU AGA@&%ty&N, SO PL812Y4EASE STOP TEARING I@&#T APART!!@%r]

“Good.” Van said, releasing the prompt. His hands relaxed as the fracture in reality stitched itself back together.

A moment of silence followed before new text appeared.

[… I’m sorry.]

“So, you can talk?” Van let out a weary sigh, folding his arms.

Another pause. Then:

[… Yes. I’m a being. Much like yourself.]

“What kind of being? Be truthful,” Van growled, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

[I am a supervisor of some sort.]

“A what now?”

[You know how there are gods? Like the human goddess, the archdevil, etc.?]

“Yeah? What about them?”

[I’m the one responsible for their ascension. When someone reaches level 500 and maxes out at least one stat, I offer them the same choice I showed you. If they accept, they reset to level 1 and ascend to Arataxia. They usually accept without much fuss… The “Else you will lose it forever” always gets them; so that’s why I started to spam you. No one outright refused it like you.]

Van hummed thoughtfully, his gaze sharp.

[And also, that’s why I revealed myself to you in the first place. You’ve reached level 500 and maxed out not one, but three stats. You are qualified to be a God.]

“I see…” Van paused, narrowing his eyes. “So all those gods—”

His train of thought halted as realization struck.

‘Wait. Level 500? Not some G-rank milestone specific to this world, but level 500? Maxed stats? That’s not something anyone here could achieve unless…’

“… They’re all like me, aren’t they? Transmigrators. They, too, have status windows and the like?”

The system prompt hesitated.

[… In a way. Yes. But none of them came from your world aside from Varolia. However, they do have the ability to access the prompt.]

“Are you the one who created it?”

[No. I was merely granted the authority to manage it by… someone. Every supervisor has a boss, after all. I cannot reveal their identity, even under threat. Literally. Here: Their name is @(^)(&^&^($&@# They are ^&@%#&@^%# Coming from @&(^#%(@$% They %#^%@&^#%@ for the sake of &@^(%#(&^@. See?]

Van stared at the garbled mess, his expression deadpan.

‘… Though you could have just written all those symbols yourself. That’s hardly proof,’ he thought, his eyes narrowing into a half-lidded, thoroughly unamused gaze.

“Is it The Enlightened One? Or maybe The Being Veiled in Shadows?”

[Neither, especially the latter. He’s a mere native who stumbled into godhood through sheer luck. Do not try to guess who lords over me, as you’ll never get it right by chance. It isn’t a concept you know of.]

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Not a concept I know of?’ Van thought as he narrowed his eyes.

“Then who’s the former?”

[The Enlightened One is someone capable of peering into Void Anomalies like this one. That is what we call him because he’s, well, reached a certain enlightenment.]

‘How vague.’

“What are void anomalies?” Van asked. “I remember you mentioning it a while ago; that we live in one, right? Right after I level to 500.”

[Indeed. Think of them as universes. Though, calling them that is a bold oversimplification.]

“I see. So I’m in a different universe from the one I transmigrated from.” Van’s tone grew skeptical. “You’re awfully cooperative. I half expected you to glitch out or claim you had limits on what you could tell me like with the one who gave you the authority.”

[I promised to answer truthfully—though I was threatened into doing so. Besides, hiding information from someone like you would be pointless, especially since you are close to becoming a Co356(&(%T(3782654. Ah, it seems I cannot share that either.]

Van raised an eyebrow at the garbled response.

[Regarding your earlier statement about being in a different universe, however…]

Van’s muscles tensed. “What about it?”

[It’s only partially true. You are still in the same Void Anomaly. Both your original “world” and this one are in the same… hm, think of it as “instance”.]

Van’s breath hitched. “What… now?”

[Calm yourself. While you are indeed in the same “universe”, there is virtually no way back to your
“home”… Yet.]

Van cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably as he shook his head.

“That aside,” he began, taking a deep breath, “you mentioned I was close to becoming something. Did you mean… a god?”

[No. A god was what I wanted to make you.]

Van paused, his expression tightening. “I see…”

‘I guess it won’t elaborate on what it really meant, huh?’ he thought, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“Oh, speaking of which,” Van said, his tone sharpening. “Why were you so insistent on making me a god? Other than just being surprised I refused.”

The prompt hesitated once more. Then:

[… Because of your broken skills and stats.]

“I’m sorry?” Van blinked.

[Two things happen in this world, particularly to transmigrators. First, they are equipped with a system that randomly assigns their stats and abilities. In your case, you were summoned through your circle, and Varolia was responsible for interpreting it.]

“Wait,” Van said, his voice tense. “So… it’s not the Gods who grant those skills?”

[What?! Of course not. Would you hand a… Say, nuclear reactor to a 4-year-old and expect them to handle it responsibly?] The message appeared to scoff.

[The Gods simply transcribe what’s dictated to them. If they take control of the transmigration circle—which drifts unpredictably every 10,000 years.]

Van’s eyes widened in shock.

‘So… it’s all RANDOM!? Magus got like ten harem skills by sheer dumb luck!? ARE YOU SERIOUS!’

He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his spiraling thoughts.

‘Alright… setting that aside, I guess it’s good to know the gods don’t have some cosmic hate boner for me. Well, except for Unicus. He did say Varolia hates me. Huh. I wonder why? Right—’Untrusted.’ Does that affect her, too maybe? Is that why she wants me dead? Wait a second!”

He narrowed his eyes in confusion.

‘If she didn’t give me those abilities, then why the hell doesn’t it work on demons either?! Is it really all just luck?! Wow. Just… wow.’

[Second, if they somehow break their limits and reach 99,999 stat points, it’s a sign they’ve grown too strong. My job is to offer them an ‘opportunity’ to grow even stronger. In reality, this caps their growth indefinitely—though it skyrockets them to an entirely different height.]

Van frowned. “Indefinitely caps their growth? How does that work?”

[Once they accept, I grant them skills that are carefully selected instead of randomly generated. These skills are indeed powerful and elevate them to the peak of this void anomaly. But it also permanently binds them to this void anomaly. They can never grow beyond it.]

The prompt paused before continuing.

[That said, most don’t mind. They were mortals to begin with, and the power they gain here far exceeds anything they could have imagined. Most mortals have nothing to seek beyond this void anomaly.]

Van absorbed the explanation, his mind racing.

‘So, the gods here are… capped? All that power, and they’re still confined. Boxed in…’ His gaze darkened as a thought crept into his mind. ‘So by refusing; I’m not limiting myself. Does that mean I could…’

His chest tightened as an image of his mother’s face surfaced.

‘See her again?’

Van clenched his fists, forcing the thought aside, and narrowed his eyes. “Then why not cap them from the start? Why wait until after they transmigrate? Transmigrators are already strong when they arrive here—at least from what I’ve seen.”

[It’s a test.]

“A test for what?”

[I cannot answer that.]

Van clicked his tongue in frustration, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply before glaring at the prompt again.

“It’s a sick test,” he said bitterly. “I never asked for this. Never asked to be transmigrated. To be torn away from my family…” His voice faltered as his mother’s face flashed vividly in his mind.

[I’m really sorry to hear that. It sounds like it must have been really difficult for you to go through. If you want to talk more about it, I’m here to listen.]

Van froze, his expression darkening.

“You… motherfucker,” he growled, the words dripping with venom. “Are you seriously using Ch*t-G*T to answer me!?”

His fists clenched tightly as he glared at the prompt, his breath hissing through his teeth. After a tense moment, he let out a sharp exhale.

“Okay… Fine,” he muttered, his voice quieter but no less bitter. “Either way, I need to go back down. I’ll talk to you later.”

[I understand. I’ll always be here if you need me.]

Van’s eye twitched, his frustration bubbling up again. “Grrrr…!!!” he growled, catching the unmistakable trace of Ch*-tG*T’s tone in its response.

%(%^ELSE@(&^#(&%(@WHERE(O$@&$)@$%

::: Are you sure about this, %&*@? Wouldn’t it be safer to pluck him out now, rather than risk his energy getting snuffed out in the anomaly? :::

“I’d rather not. If we pull him out prematurely, instead of letting him leave on his own, the alignment we need might never come to pass. Besides…” the voice paused, its tone heavy with conviction, “you know as well as I do—we’re going to need strong, capable allies. And a self-made wielder is invaluable.”

::: I hate this experiment. :::

“Same here, same here. As you know, I’ve been stuck in one for over 40,000 years.”

::: I remember you mentioning that. Yet, honestly, it pales in comparison to some of the other things you’ve endured. Still, didn’t you walk into it willingly? All for the sake of getting stronger? It’s always fascinated me how, even as a lower being, you managed to push yourself to such extremes. :::

“Thanks to that, I’ve learned how to read thoughts—even before they occur. Everything is buried within the flow of Ki. It’s truly remarkable. Every answer, everything you seek, is in Ki.”

::: … Hey, %&*@. :::
“What is it?”

::: Your name is blurred whenever I say it. Did you notice? :::
“I heard it just fine when you said it, though.”

::: … Is it my imagination? :::
“You’re as on edge as the rest of us. But… I’ll stay for a while, just in case.”

::: Thank you. :::

“Anyway,” Belial grumbled, leaning back in his chair at the tavern. “Me and my maid are gonna find someplace to settle.”

“Oh? You won’t have to look far, young lord,” Ami said, just as Van emerged from the restroom.

“There are two apartments here. You and Van are friends, right?” She gestured toward the staircase. “There’s another room upstairs, though that one’s only for rent, not for sale. But I doubt Galdo would mind…”

Her words trailed off as Galdo, the burly dwarf who ran the tavern, passed by, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Right?” she asked, throwing him a pointed look.

Galdo sighed, rubbing his temple. “You got coin, I hope?”

“Nah, fuck that. I’m crashing here for free,” Belial said with a grin that bordered on insolence. “My money and comfort are way more important than—”

“THEN HURRY UP AND SCRAM BEFORE I—!” Galdo’s booming voice shook the room, his face reddening like a coal about to catch fire.

Before he could finish, Arnolt stepped in, placing a calming hand on Galdo’s shoulder. “Easy, Galdo. The kid’s just like that with people. He’ll pay whatever you ask.”

Mirias, Belial’s maid, clenched her fists, her simmering rage carefully masked.

‘To speak on Lord Belial’s behalf so dismissively… He must be furious—’

Her gaze flicked to Belial, who wore a delighted, childlike smirk as he watched the dwarf nearly burst a vein.

‘Never mind. He loves being dismissed. And he was probably hoping the dwarf would blow up, too.’

Galdo exhaled heavily, shaking his head. “Coin upfront.”

“Mirias. Toss him the bag,” Belial said casually, waving a hand.

Without hesitation, Mirias threw a bag of coin toward Galdo. The heavy pouch landed with a solid thud in the dwarf’s hand, nearly weighing it down.

“Shit…” Galdo muttered, eyes widening. ‘That’s a fuckton of coin.’ He rolled the bag in his palm, feeling its hefty weight. ‘Either he’s paying off his attitude… or he’s just got that much to burn.’

His gaze flicked to Ami, who stood watching with quiet approval.

‘Oh well. Coin is coin.’

He tucked the bag into his waist pocket and grunted. “Come to me for the key. Rent’s bi-monthly. Don’t be late.”

With that, Galdo turned to leave, but his gaze lingered on Van as he approached the table.

Van sat down beside Ami, and she immediately cuddled into his arm, her warmth clinging to him like a familiar scent.

Galdo narrowed his eyes. ‘That armor… He’s the new tenant from yesterday.’ His jaw tensed as he glanced at Ami’s soft expression.

‘That girl shouldn’t be so quick to trust someone like that.’

With a quiet scoff, Galdo shook his head and walked off, already planning to have a word with Van later.

“Hey, girl.”

Belial’s voice cut through the air like a blade, his eyes narrowing on Ami.

Ami stiffened at his tone, her hold on Van’s arm instinctively tightening. “…What is it?”

“Stay the fuck away from him,” Belial said coldly. “That arm’s only for my cousin.”

The atmosphere at the table froze. Every gaze flicked between Belial and Van, tension thickening with each passing second.

Van pressed his lips into a thin line, his expression deadpan as he stared blankly at Belial.

‘Well, I guess we’re doing this.’

“W-what…?” Ami stammered, her voice shaking. She clung to Van’s arm like a lifeline. “Van, what’s he talking about!?” Her wide eyes searched his face for answers.

Sylva, seated at the edge of the table, perked up, her curiosity piqued.

‘Ooooh, I love dramas,’ she thought, her mind racing. ‘Does this guy have a jealous cousin? Is that why he’s here—to chase after Van Hellix?’

Van sighed and gave a calm, measured reply.

“Oh. I’m married to his cousin.”

A deathly silence fell over the table.

Savathon choked on his drink, coughing violently. Vaelthir’s eyes widened in shock, while Sylva sat frozen, her mouth hanging open.

‘WHAT!?’ Sylva’s thoughts screamed. ‘Van Hellix is married!?‘

Belial’s gaze never wavered, his eyes locking onto Van with unsettling intensity. His attention shifted briefly to Ami, her arms still wrapped around Van’s.

“I don’t allow that kind of closeness from other females,” Belial said, his voice low and dangerous. “I don’t care who she is. Tell her to fuck off.”

The words hit the table like a hammer, each syllable carrying weight.

Mirias studied Belial carefully, trying to gauge his intent. She’d seen him test people before, push boundaries for amusement.

But this wasn’t a test.

This time, he was serious.

Van met Belial’s gaze, his expression unwavering.

“…”

“Let’s talk outside. I’m not going to make a scene here,” Van said flatly, his gaze settling on Ami, who sat frozen between releasing him and holding on tighter.

“Don’t worry, alright? I’ll be right back.” Van offered her a reassuring nod as he got up.

Ami hesitated, then reluctantly let go.

“Fine by me,” Belial muttered, standing. There was none of his usual banter in his tone this time. He followed Van without a word, his focus razor-sharp.

He wanted answers.

The two left the tavern, stepping out into the late-noon sun.

As soon as the door swung shut, Belial cut to the chase.

“I meant what I said,” he spat. “Don’t get close to other females like that when you’re bedding my cousin. She won’t accept that kinda shit, and neither will I.”

“Neither will I,” Van replied calmly.

Belial scowled. “If you know that, then why the fuck did you let her hold you like—”

“She’s just a kid to me,” Van interrupted, his tone flat, cutting off Belial mid-sentence.

“…What?” Belial narrowed his eyes. There was a flash of confusion beneath his stern gaze.

“We had a past. And recently, she and the group inside went through something traumatic. She was just happy to see I’m alive.” Van explained.

“…A romantic past?” Belial prodded.

“No,” Van replied swiftly. “I’m not a pedophile.”

“…Pae-do-fa’eel…?” Belial repeated awkwardly, trying to wrap his tongue around the unfamiliar word.

Van exhaled, already feeling the exhaustion set in. “I’m not attracted to children.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Belial’s voice hardened again, cutting through the air like steel.

“Whether you fucked a kid or a gorilla, I don’t care. You’re married to my cousin now. Past is past. Cut your relationship with that girl inside.”

Van’s eyes flickered, a glint of something dangerous crossing his gaze.

“Don’t cross the line,” Van warned, his voice low and measured. “I’m willing to accept setting new boundaries with her—and with any other female friends I have. But even Alicia has male acquaintances and friends in the demonic realm.”

“I don’t give A FUCK WHAT MY COUSIN DOES WITH HER FREE TIME.” Belial’s growl was sharp, almost feral. “This is about you.“

Van held his gaze, unflinching.

“My cousin deserves someone who isn’t even close to cheating on her. You got me?!”

Van suddenly leaned in, his face inches from Belial’s, his eyes burning with intensity.

“Look at me,” Van demanded.

Belial met his gaze without flinching, his lips curling into a faint sneer.

“I’d slit my own throat before I—”

Van paused, catching himself. His expression shifted as he thought it through.

‘…Right. But that wouldn’t really kill me. I’d just revive a few moments later.’

“I’d drown myself before I—”

Another pause.

‘…That’d be more painful, but after you pass out, it’s actually a pretty calming way to die. Still… I’d revive afterward.’

Van sighed quietly, his deadpan frustration growing.

“I’ll burn myself to death before I—”

Once again, he froze.

‘…Definitely the more painful way to die. But I’d still live afterward…’

His expression darkened as the futility of his examples sank in.

Belial blinked, his brow furrowing.

“…? You had a really good thing going there. You good?”

Van exhaled, rubbing his temple before delivering the final line with a deadpan stare.

“I’d impale my own cock 10,000 times before I’d cheat on her.”

Belial stood in stunned silence for a moment.

Then, he sighed, shaking his head.

“…Hm. Aight.” He crossed his arms, nodding in reluctant approval. “If you were gonna say die, I was gonna laugh in your face. But that? That works.”

Belial gave a final grunt of acceptance. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

Van straightened, letting out a slow breath. The tension between them softened, just a little.

“Good,” Van said, his tone flat, unwavering.

Belial chuckled, his lips curling into a lopsided smirk. “You’re one crazy fucker. But at least I know you’re serious.”

He leaned back against the tavern wall, arms crossed, before his gaze flickered toward the door. “So, you’ve got no feelings for that girl inside? No… complicated shit?”

Van sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes drifted toward the door, where he sensed her presence. Ami was there—just out of sight—but he could feel her standing behind the wood, silent and listening.

‘Luckily, you think the same as me, right? Ami?’

“I love her like family. Like… a daughter. Nothing more.” His voice was steady, unshaken.

Behind the door, Ami’s breath caught.

‘Nothing more… he said…’

Her heart squeezed in her chest as she frowned, taking a step back, her hands trembling at her sides. She hadn’t realized how close she’d been standing to the door—how intently she’d been listening.

She turned away, her footsteps light but hurried.

‘I… I never thought about him in a romantic way. We’ve only just met again—after years apart. So why…?’

Her hand rose instinctively to clutch her chest, fingers pressing against the fabric as if trying to soothe the ache beneath.

‘Then why does it hurt to hear him say that…?’

“Hrrrm…!”

Van suddenly growled, a guttural sound escaping through clenched teeth just as he and Belial were about to head back inside.

Belial stopped, raising an eyebrow. “…What?”

Van’s expression flickered with frustration, his gaze locked on something invisible to anyone else.

“My armor itches,” Van muttered, his tone flat but irritated. “I’ll go upstairs, drop it off at my place, and be right back.” He gestured vaguely toward the staircase leading to the upper floors. “I live just above.”

Belial shrugged, unconcerned. “Fine. Don’t take too long.”

As Belial disappeared back into the tavern, Van climbed the stairs with slow, deliberate steps, his mind already racing.

He closed the door behind him, locking out the world below. The familiar quiet of his apartment settled around him, but he barely noticed it. His attention was already drawn to the glowing text hovering in the air, words that only he could see.

[ARE YOU REALLY REALLY REALLY, TRULY, DEEPLY, ENTIRELY, FULLY, CONFIDENTLY, PERSISTENTLY, INDEFINITELY, COMPLETELY SURE YOU DON’T WANT TO BECOME A GOD!!!!? REMEMBER—IT’S A GOD! YOU’LL BE A GOD IF YOU ACCEPT!!! CAN’T MISS THIS OPPORTUNITY!!!!]

Van’s jaw tightened. His fingers twitched at his sides, resisting the temptation to reach out.

Another line flashed beneath the message, pulsing with an almost manic energy:

[YES!!!!!!!! PLEASE!!!!!! PRESS HERE TO BECOME GOD!!!!! GODHOOD HERE!!!!!!!!!!!]

[no]

Van stared at the glowing text, his expression darkening.

‘Something is definitely going on… What the fuck is this?’

His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping through his mind like a shadow.

“Of course…” Van muttered, his finger hovering over the prompt.

There it was — the offer to become infinitely stronger staring him right in the face. A chance to achieve godhood. The kind of power most people would kill for.

He’d made the call. The one that could shape his future—

“NOT.”

With a deadpan expression, Van clicked [NO] without a second thought.

The prompt flickered. The system wasn’t giving up so easily.

[WAIT! BE WARNED: IF YOU REFUSE, YOU WILL LOSE THE OPPORTUNITY TO ACHIEVE GODHOOD FOREVER.]

[ARE YOU SURE!?]

[YES] [NO]

Van didn’t flinch.

Without hesitation, he pressed [NO] again.

The text blinked rapidly, the system seemingly panicking as it repeated the same warning. Desperate.

Van raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“So persistent… What is this, a scam ad?” He shook his head. “I said NO.”

Another tap on [NO].

He folded his arms, staring at the flickering text with growing irritation.

‘Why the fuck would I give up 99.9k Strength, Vigor, Resistance, my Dark Soul passive that literally makes me immortal, and Hard Swing — the most broken skill I’ve seen in this world — for some shady ‘God’ status?’ He thought with a scoff.

‘The same system that screwed me over from the start is now asking me to reset everything?’ He clenched his jaw. ‘If I accepted this ridiculous offer, I’d deserve every misfortune afterwards.’

His finger hovered over the screen for a moment longer.

“Miss me with that nonsense.”

With a final sigh, he swiped his hand through the air, closing the status window.

Van straightened up, exhaling sharply. His gaze hardened.
‘I’ll just get stronger on my own. Find another way.’

His footsteps echoed through the empty restroom as he walked away, steady and sure.

But as he turned the corner, he brought up his status again.
Hard Swing.

‘I stretched the concept of it quite a bit during that fight with… whatever took over Unicus.’ He tapped on the skill, the gears in his mind turning. ‘I wonder just how much more I can stretch it?’

His gaze shifted to [Seed of Darkness].

The words from the system prompt echoed in his head.

“You will lose all your skills…”

Van narrowed his eyes.
‘This passive… it’s part of my skillset, isn’t it?’

‘And if I accepted the offer, there’s no guarantee it would stay.’

He sighed as he replayed the battle with Unicus in his mind.

‘Nah,’ He shook his head.

‘I’m too important to take that kind of shady risk.’

——————ELSEWHERE——————

‘First things first… I can’t go back home. Nor can I ask anyone for help.’ Michael thought, leaning against the cold brick wall of the alleyway.

The weight of the past few days pressed on his chest, suffocating him.

‘… And maybe I’m strong enough to kill Bernard…’ He shivered at the word kill, the thought twisting his gut. ‘But not his brother. Doyle’s an A-Ranker.’

He clenched his fists and slammed his head against the wall, the dull thud reverberating through the alley.

‘What am I doing?’ His breath trembled. ‘What the fuck am I doing?’

The image of his father’s lifeless body flashed in his mind. His throat tightened.

‘I’ve never killed anyone. I’m… I’m scared.’ He glanced toward the city gates in the distance — the way out. The path to run. To start over.

‘Maybe I should just run. Start fresh somewhere else…’ He swallowed hard. ‘Dad’s dead. And I can’t do anything to Bernard. I’m not strong enough.’

He stared at the ground, feeling the weight of failure sinking in.

But then he heard Bernard’s voice echo in his mind.

“You’re too naive, Michael.”

His jaw tightened.

Naive.
Too naive.

His heart pounded as rage bubbled up inside him. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.

‘No.’
Michael stood up straight, pressing his back to the alley wall.

‘No.’

‘I branded Lizzy and Anne. And… It wasn’t because I was doing it for them.’ His lips curled into a bitter scowl. ‘It was because I didn’t want them to leave me alone. Because lets face it; even when that piece of SHIT of a dad was alive, he was never with me.’

His reflection stared back at him from the surface of a filthy puddle.

He barely recognized the man looking back.

‘I’m not naive. I’m a fucking scumbag.’

The words rang in his mind like a tolling bell.

He crouched by the puddle, staring at the dirty, warped version of himself.

‘Just like Bernard. I’m doing it all for myself.’

The thought should’ve repulsed him. But it didn’t. Instead, it felt freeing.

‘If that’s what I am… then it’s about time I act like it.’

His fingers brushed against his pouch of gold; all that he has left from the burnt and blown-up home, and the slave crest.

He exhaled, a shaky, bitter laugh escaping his lips.

His reflection stared back at him, no longer warped or distorted — but clear. Certain.

‘Bernard is a scumbag, but he’s loved and respected. This means that as long as I think things through, I’ll have it good. I’m DONE acting by emotion. I’ll have my revenge, but not now.’

Michael clenched his teeth as the memory of his father’s last moments resurfaced — how his father died without even saying his name.

He straightened, pulling his cloak tighter around him as he made his way back.

“MICHAEL!?”

Misa’s voice cut through the air as she ran up to him, wrapping him in a tight hug.

“Miss Misa…” Michael muttered, his voice low.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, pulling back to examine his face. “I saw that explosion, and—”

“Yes. Just,” He glanced away, brushing past her concern. “Tell me.”

Misa blinked, confused. “Tell you…?”

“Lizzy and Anne,” His voice faltered. “They’re… still someone’s… you know. Branded?“

Her expression darkened, and she lowered her head solemnly.

“… I’m sorry. Yes.” Misa’s tone softened. “Miss Marcy and Miss Amoria are looking into it. Please, Michael — stay here. Let me keep you safe until they retur—”

“I’m sorry.” Michael stammered, cutting her off. “Please keep them safe.” His voice wavered as he struggled to keep his composure.

“I need to be with my dad. It turns out the explosion wasn’t at my house, haha. I just wanted to check up on them… Is Anne asleep, at least?”

Misa offered a small smile, trying to ease his worry. “Yes. Both of them are in a deep sleep. And Anne seems to be doing much better. I guess Miss Amoria’s spell finally kicked in.”

“I see…” Michael nodded, a faint hint of relief washing over him. “Then, I’ll go.”

Before Misa could say anything more, he turned and left swiftly, his cloak billowing behind him.

Misa stood there, watching him go, her brows furrowed in confusion and worry.

Michael walked with steady steps, his mind racing.

‘Alright… They’re both still slaves.’ He thought as he discreetly looked at the metallic crest. ‘What other secrets do you have…?’

Michael’s footsteps quickened.

‘I know where to find out for sure.’

He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

‘I never wanted to go back there. Not after the time Bernard showed me that place.’

A dark grin twisted his lips.

‘It was bad company… but now? Now I’ll feel right at home.’

His cloak whipped behind him as he disappeared into the shadows.

—- ELSEWHERE —-

The rundown shack smelled of damp wood and old parchment. A single candle flickered on the mage’s cluttered desk, casting long shadows across the room.

Michael stepped inside, his hood pulled low over his head, clutching the metallic crest in his hand.

The mage glanced up from a worn tome, his sharp eyes narrowing as they landed on the pouch of gold tied to Michael’s waist. His gaze lingered there for a moment before shifting to Michael’s face.

“Well, well… What brings an academy boy to my humble little corner?” the mage asked, his voice dripping with curiosity.

‘How did he know…?’ Michael bit his lower lip, his pulse quickening as he entered the shack.

He slowly approached the table where the old mage sat.

Michael placed the crest on the table. “I need it inspected. Please.”

The mage raised an eyebrow. “Inspected?”

Michael nodded. “I want to know if it’s still active. And what properties it has… And stuff.”

The mage leaned forward, examining the crest without touching it. “Hmm… And stuff, huh?” he muttered with a smirk.

Michael’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. And stuff.“

The mage chuckled at Michael’s reaction; rejoicing internally that a sucker had walked right into his place. But his curiosity alight that such a timid customer carried an illegal slave-crest.

“Alright. I can take a look — but it won’t be free.”

Michael frowned. “How much?”

The mage’s eyes flicked back to the pouch of gold at Michael’s waist. “Half of what you’ve got.”

Michael stiffened. “T-That’s ridiculous.”

The mage shrugged. “Take it or leave it, boy. I’m putting myself at risk by handling something illegal like this. You’re asking for a dangerous service.”

Michael hesitated, his fingers tightening around the pouch. ‘Damn it…’

With a reluctant sigh, he untied the pouch and tossed half of it onto the table. The coins spilled out, clinking together.

The mage grinned as he scooped up the gold, tucking it away in a drawer. “Smart boy.”

He grabbed a piece of chalk and began drawing intricate runes on the surface of his desk. Once the circle was complete, he placed the crest in the center and muttered an incantation.

The runes glowed faintly, and the crest began to pulse with a soft light.

The mage’s expression turned serious. He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he observed the magic at work.

“Hmm… Interesting,” he murmured.

“What is it?” Michael asked, leaning forward.

The mage tapped the crest. “It’s still active. Definitely not a dead mark. Brand someone with it, say the words, and they become your eternal slaves… A limited number of… 3, huh?”

Michael’s heart sank. “So… it still works?”

The mage nodded. “Oh, it works, alright. Has one more use to it. But it’s… unusual.”

Michael’s brow furrowed. “Unusual how?”

The mage traced a finger along one of the glowing runes. “See this? Redirection magic. Whoever gets branded with this crest isn’t bound to the person doing the branding — they’re bound to someone else… Though, I cannot say who.”

Michael’s eyes widened, and he clenched his fists.

‘Bernard…!’

The mage nodded as if reading his mind. “And that’s not all.” He pointed to a faint scorch mark on the crest. “It was also enchanted with explosion magic. But it seems that part’s already been triggered. We’re safe.”

Michael looked down, swallowing hard as the memory of his charred home flashed in his mind.

‘… Alright. Great.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I guess… it’s time to do this.’

The mage dusted off his hands, dismissively. “Alright, boy. If you’re done — and you’re not going to sell it — take it and scram—”

Before the mage could finish, Michael removed his cloak, starting to undress.

The mage’s eyes widened in shock. “BOY!? I DON’T SWING THAT WAY. If that’s what you’re after, you should head for the other place around the corner—”

“That’s not it,” Michael said, his voice firm as he exposed his inner thigh.

The mage froze. “What… are you doing?”

Michael took a shaky breath. “I… I need you to brand me with this. Here.”

The mage’s expression darkened with suspicion. “Why would you want that?”

Michael lowered his head, avoiding the old man’s gaze.

‘If I want a chance at a normal life… I have to prove that I’m a victim, too. And it has to be in a place Aunt Amoria hadn’t checked. She was in a hurry — so she didn’t check all my body for the mark.’

The mage crossed his arms. “I appreciate the offer, but if I take a squeaky-clean kid like you as a slave, I’ll be a target. The royal guard will be at my doorstep before nightfall. Leave.”

Michael shook his head. “I’ll keep the crest mark on me. I’m leaving, but you must brand me.”

The mage raised an eyebrow. “What… exactly are you planning, boy?”

Michael hesitated. Then, with trembling hands, he pulled out a small pouch from his cloak and set it on the table. It jingled with the weight of gold.

The mage’s gaze flicked to the pouch, his eyes lighting up. “That’s all your coin, isn’t it?”

“… It is,” Michael confirmed softly. “Take it.”

The mage snatched the pouch and weighed it in his hand with a greedy grin. “Generous. But I still don’t see why you’d want to go through with this.”

Michael clenched his fists to steady himself. “Brand me on my inner thigh. Give me the command I tell you. It might redirect to someone else… but it’ll still respond to the orders you give me. You understood that, too. Didn’t you?”

The mage’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve used that crest before, haven’t you?”

Michael said nothing.

The mage leaned in, studying him. “You’re desperate.”

Michael’s voice cracked as he whispered, “Please… Just do it.”

The mage sighed, tucking the pouch of gold into his robes. “Very well. Since you’re paying all you’ve got…”

He picked up the crest, watching it glow faintly in his hands.

“Now, tell me — what command do you want me to give you?“

Michael sprinted through the winding streets, his lungs burning as the acrid scent of smoke filled the air. His mind raced faster than his feet, the image of the billowing fire in the distance seared into his thoughts.

His house. His father.

The dread tightened around his chest with every step.

‘Dad… Please be okay. Please…’

The cobblestones blurred beneath him as he tore through the city, ignoring the distant shouts of townsfolk. The flames in the distance grew larger, painting the sky with a sinister red glow. His breath came in ragged gasps, his legs screaming for respite, but he didn’t slow down.

He couldn’t.

Not now.

When he reached the street leading to his house, he stumbled to a halt. The scene before him drained the color from his face; his lips parting as the ash and flames glistened in the reflection of his eyes.

The house he had grown up in, the one he shared with his father, was engulfed in a raging inferno. The roof had already caved in, and the walls crumbled under the relentless assault of the flames, devouring everything in their path.

A crowd had gathered, their faces pale with shock and horror. Some shouted frantically for water, others cried out in desperation, their voices barely rising above the roar of the fire.

“WHERE ARE THE WATER MAGES!? WE NEED PRIEST HEALERS TOO!” someone yelled, their voice straining with urgency.

“DID ANYONE SEE MICHAEL OR MR. EVENBROWN?!” another voice called out, echoing the mounting panic of the neighbors.

“Was it an attack?!” someone else speculated, fear lacing their words.

The cacophony of the crowd blurred into a distant hum as Michael stumbled forward, his gaze locked on the wreckage that had once been his home.

“MICHAEL! YOU’RE ALIVE!” a neighbor cried out, pointing him out to the others. The nervous mob collectively exhaled in relief.

“Thank the Goddess you weren’t inside!”

But Michael didn’t acknowledge them.

His legs moved on their own, carrying him through the heat and smoke, closer and closer—until his gaze landed on the collapsed figure near the edge of the rubble.

His father.

“I… Is that… Mr. Evenbrown?!” someone whispered in disbelief, their voice trembling as they pointed toward the prone figure in the wreckage.

The crowd fell into a stunned silence, their eyes widening as the realization sank in. But Michael barely registered their murmurs. His focus remained on the motionless form lying amidst the ashes.

Michael’s heart dropped to his stomach.

“Dad!!!” he cried out; his voice cracking as he rushed to the man’s side.

The older man was barely recognizable. His clothes were singed and torn, his face blackened with soot. Half of his body was covered in burns, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and distant.

“You…” his father rasped, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames.

Michael dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he lifted his father gently, his fingers brushing against the soot-streaked fabric of the man’s tunic.

“I—I’m here,” he whispered, his voice breaking as tears welled in his eyes. “You’re going to be okay. The healers will come. We’ll fix this. Just… stay with me. Please… just stay with me.”

But his father’s gaze drifted past him, unfocused. A faint, bittersweet smile touched his lips as he reached out—grasping for something, or someone.

“Haylee… honey… I’m coming…” His voice was soft, distant, already fading.

Michael froze. His chest tightened as he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“HEY!!!” he screamed, his voice raw, cracking. He leaned in closer, his face inches from his father’s, his words desperate, fierce—like he could breathe life into the dying man with sheer force of will.

“MOTHER ISN’T DEAD, REMEMBER!!!!? SHE LEFT!!!”

His father didn’t flinch. His gaze remained locked on that imagined visage beyond Michael’s shoulder, his fingers twitching as if reaching for her—his final goodbye.

Michael’s breath came in ragged gasps as he shook his head violently.

“I’M HERE!” He pounded his fist against his chest. “I’M RIGHT HERE!”

His voice broke on the next scream. “LOOK AT ME! I’VE ALWAYS BEEN HERE WITH YOU, WASN’T I!!?”

The fire crackled. The silence stretched unbearably thin.

Then, slowly—painfully—Michael’s voice dropped to a whisper. His fists unclenched. His strength gave way to a trembling, childlike plea.

“Please… please… Dad… just stay. Please.”
His head sank against his father’s chest. He pressed his forehead to the familiar, comforting scent of sweat and smoke, clinging to it, refusing to let go.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own sobs.

Then—a touch.

His father’s hand, trembling and weak, fell gently on the back of his head.

Michael gasped, his heart leaping with fragile hope. “Dad…?”

Slowly, he raised his head, only to see his father’s hand slip away, lifeless. It fell limp by his side, and his gaze remained fixed—past Michael, staring into the nothingness beyond.

Michael shook his head in disbelief. “No… no, no, no!” He shook his father gently, then more desperately, his hands gripping the fabric of his tunic.

“Dad! Please! Don’t go! Please!”

No response.

The quiet murmur of morning birds filled the air, the distant hum of life continuing as if nothing had changed. The world moved on—but his world was crumbling to ash.

“DAD!!!”

His voice cracked. “DAD!!!”

But the only answer was silence.

And in that silence, Michael’s scream tore through the day.

Footsteps approached, hurried and unsure. A priest knelt beside them, placing a glowing scepter on the older man’s chest. The soft light flickered, wavering for a brief moment before fading completely.

The priest bowed his head. “It’s no use,” he murmured solemnly. “He’s… gone. I’m sorry, Michael. I came as fast as I could from the local church.”

Michael sat frozen, clutching his father’s lifeless body. His gaze traced that familiar, bittersweet smile—fixed on something beyond him, on someone who wasn’t there.

The priest rested a hand on Michael’s shoulder, his voice soft with pity. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by hushed whispers:

“No way… Mr. Evenbrown…”

“He’s dead? But… he was everything Michael had…”

“The poor boy… who could’ve done something like this?”

Their neighbors murmured, their faces drawn with pity and unease as they watched the scene unfold. Some frowned deeply, others averted their gaze, unwilling to meet Michael’s broken stare.

Michael’s lips trembled, his voice hollow as he spoke to the priest.

“Can I… have a moment with him?”

The mage nodded and rose, stepping back to give him space.

Michael waited. He waited until the footsteps faded and the street fell silent again, save for the gentle rustling of leaves in the morning breeze.

And then—
Something inside him snapped.

With a guttural scream, he drove his fists down on his father’s chest.

“I’M ALSO WORTHY OF LOVE!!!” he roared, his voice splitting the peaceful air like a blade. “I’M YOUR SON! I’M HERE! BUT YOU DARE… CALL FOR THAT BITCH WHO LEFT?!”

His fists came down again and again, each blow harder than the last, punctuated by sobbing curses.

“YOU’RE ALREADY A FUCKING CORPSE, AREN’T YOU?! THEN I CAN BEAT YOU AS MUCH AS I WANT, RIGHT?!!!”

He slammed his fists into the man’s face, drawing blood from cracked lips. The smile still lingered—that smile that wasn’t meant for him.

And Michael hated it.

His fists rained down, wild and unrelenting.
“CALLING OUT FOR THAT BITCH!”

“DRINKING YOURSELF INTO MISERY WHEN I NEEDED YOU!”

His voice broke. “I NEEDED YOU!”

A sob tore from his throat. “YOU PIECE OF SHIT! YOU FUCKER!”

He punched harder, his knuckles split and bloodied.

“FUCKER!”
Another punch.

“FUCKER!”
And another.

“FUCKER! FUCKER! FUCKER!”

The people around him stood frozen, staring in stunned silence.

Some turned away, unable to bear the rawness of his grief. Others whispered in hushed, horrified voices.

A woman’s voice broke through the silence. “Michael, STOP—!”

She took a hesitant step forward, but her husband caught her arm, shaking his head slowly, solemnly.

Their little boy peeked out from behind his father’s legs, wide-eyed, his voice small and confused.

“Why is Mikey hitting his daddy…?”

The mother knelt down, gently turning the boy’s face away. “Sweetie, you shouldn’t look…”

But Michael didn’t care. He didn’t hear them.

All he saw was his father’s face.

And all he heard was the echo of a name that wasn’t his.

His fists came down again, harder, faster. His knuckles split open, blood mixing with blood, but he didn’t stop.

Not until he heard the sickening crack of bone.

His father’s jaw snapped, hanging limp at an unnatural angle. Blood dripped from his lips, painting Michael’s fists in crimson. But still, that damned smile lingered—a smile that wasn’t meant for him.

“You bastard…” Michael growled through gritted teeth, his voice low and rasping.

“You selfish bastard… I was here. I stayed. But you…” His chest heaved, his breaths ragged.

“You… Keep calling for that bitch…” His voice cracked as tears fell from his eyes.

His fists trembled, his body shaking with exhaustion, but he forced the words out through clenched teeth.

“You just… wanted THOSE FUCKING CHEATING WHORES BACK!“

Silence.

Finally, his fists stilled. He sat back on his knees, his body trembling with exhaustion. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, blood dripping from his knuckles onto the dirt.

His gaze drifted to the smoldering ruins of his home—just charred rubble now.

For a long moment, he just stared, breathing hard, before something clicked in his mind. His eyes slowly lifted to the sky.

“It happened…” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “Just when I said those words, right?”

He struggled to his feet, swaying as his legs threatened to give out beneath him. His breathing was shallow, uneven, but he pushed forward, dragging himself through the wreckage, his boots crunching over broken wood and ashes.

One thought burned in his mind.

The crest.

He stumbled toward the remains of his room, hands shaking as he dug through the debris. He shoved aside splintered wood and broken stone, ignoring the sting of sharp edges cutting into his palms.

His fingers brushed against something cold.

Slowly, he pulled it free from the ashes, holding it up to the light.

The crest.

It was intact. Not a single crack or chip on its surface.

But there was more. He stared at it, his eyes narrowing.

Burn marks.
Radiating out from the crest itself.
Like the explosion had started there.

His lips parted.

“I see…” he whispered. His fingers curled tighter around the crest. His knuckles turned white as the sharp edges bit into his skin.

“Bernard.”

His voice came out low, guttural. He could barely get the words out through clenched teeth.

“You wanted to kill me.”

His fists trembled as he stared at the crest.

“Fine.”

He took a step back from the wreckage, standing upright despite his shaking legs. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, steadying his breathing.

Then he opened them again.

“When Anne and Lizzy wake up… my life is over.”

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. His voice shook, but he kept going.

“No one loves me. No one cares about me anymore.”

He raised the crest, staring at it with hollow eyes.

“And once they wake up… they’ll tell their moms.”

His hand trembled as he gripped the crest tighter.

“I’ll die.” His voice cracked, but he kept speaking. “Either by Aunt—…. Either by Amoria…” He paused, correcting himself. “Or by Marcy.”

He exhaled, a shaky breath escaping his lips.

He then let out a soft, bitter laugh.

“Yeah… I’ll die, won’t I?” His gaze remained fixed on the crest in his hand.

And then—something inside him shifted.

His lips curled into a thin, lifeless smile. His eyes darkened with resolve.

“I have nothing to live for.”

He held the crest higher, letting the sunlight catch its surface. His fingers curled around it like a weapon.

“Bernard Von Brayle…” His voice was steady now. Deadpan. Emotionless.

“Prepare to die.”

———————– ELSEWHERE ———————-

“AHH, YOU STINKING, LOUSY DWARF! YOU KNOW YOUR SHIT, AHH!? THAT’S MY TYPE OF GUY; THOUGH YOU’RE STILL A FUCKING AMATEUR!” Belial shouted, his voice booming across the tavern as he slammed his mug on the table, spilling ale everywhere.

Across from him, Arnolt cackled with equal fervor, his beard dripping with foam. He leaned over to Van, grinning like a man possessed.

“AHAHAHA! BRAT, I DON’T KNOW WHERE YOU FOUND THIS SHIT-BUCKET OF A HUMAN, BUT HE’S MY FAVORITE HUMAN TODAY!”

Arnolt wrapped an arm around Belial’s neck, the two of them locking shoulders like long-lost brothers, mugs raised high in celebration.

“But those axes need some refinement, you lousy dwarf. You won’t respect your weapon, ain’t no weapon’s gonna respect you,” Belial scolded, pointing at Arnolt with his mug.

“Ahhhh, piss off! The weapons’re fine. You’re gonna lecture me now, you stinkin’ brat!?” Arnolt shot back, his voice more gruff as he leaned in, scowling.

Belial snorted, shaking his head.
“The fuck they are, blind old fuck. Blindfolded, I could tell those axes are practically crumbling.”

Without waiting for a response, Belial reached over and effortlessly pulled the axe from Arnolt’s back holster. The heavy weapon hit the table with a loud thud, drawing a few curious glances from nearby patrons.

“Look at the dent here, you prick,” Belial continued, tapping the blade with his finger.

“See this? That dent. You’ve been leaving it in damp places, haven’t you? I don’t care if you piss on it, but wipe it down at least once a day. Otherwise, this metal—hell, any metal—is gonna weaken and eventually rust.”

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed, his gaze fixating on the spot Belial pointed to. His fingers traced the dent, brow furrowing in thought.

After a long pause, he grunted.
“Shit…”

Arnolt glanced back up at Belial, his expression somewhere between surprised and impressed.
“Brat… you don’t look older than your twenties. Where the hell’d you learn all this?”

Belial raised his mug, taking a long swig of ale before slamming it back down on the table.
“None of your business.”

He leaned forward, jabbing a finger toward Arnolt.
“Just take care of your fucking weapon!”

Arnolt stared at him for a moment longer before letting out a low chuckle, nodding thoughtfully.
“Aye… Fair enough.”

Van sighed, rubbing his temple as he watched the pair practically fuse into one loud, drunken entity.

‘They’re… getting along really well, huh?’ he thought, leaning back in his seat. ‘Guess it was a given with their personalities. But who would’ve thought Alicia’s cousin is such a master craftsman that even a dwarf respects him?’

“Lord Belial,” Mirias let out softly as she sat next to Van, her voice more subdued compared to the rowdy exchange.

“… Had given up on making bonds with other… Uhm, nobles where we came from.” She started, reflecting on their past.

“He had no one to talk to, and no one to turn to. So he turned to blacksmithing as a hobby. According to him, if you treated a weapon like a heap of garbage, it will return the favor… I guess that’s why he liked it so much,” she said, her gaze softening as she looked at Belial somberly.

“It gave him something he wanted that we de… We and the other nobles could never give him,” she continued, her words drawing Sylva’s and Vaelthir’s attention.

“To think there are nobles as rough as him…” Ami murmured to herself, almost in awe.

‘Hm. They’re so alike, him and Magus. But if there’s one key difference, it’s that Belial is much more honest to both himself and to others,’ Van thought to himself.

Beside him, Sylva quietly spoke up, her voice cutting through the noise.
“Arnolt seems much better,” she observed, her soft tone drawing Van’s attention.

He turned to her. “Hm?”

Sylva’s sharp eyes locked onto his.

“Van Hellix.”

“You’re a summoned hero, aren’t you? The other one—summoned alongside Magus Veil. Then… we need to talk.”

Before Van could respond, Savathon bellowed from across the table, slamming his mug down with a thunderous crash.

“AHHH, BE SILENT WITH ALL THESE TALKS! THIS IS A TAVERN! DRINK SOMETHING!”
He staggered toward Sylva, a jug of ale in hand, trying to shove it in her face.

Sylva didn’t flinch. But before the ale could spill, Vaelthir—expressionless and dignified as ever—pushed Savathon’s hand away with two fingers. The Dragonkin growled in irritation but didn’t press further.

Van sat back, watching the scene unfold. Laughter. Smiles. Casual banter.

For a moment, it all seemed normal.

But his mind drifted back.

Kota’s words echoed in his head.

About how the Goddess had set everything up.

How she wanted everyone he cared about dead.

He gave Ami a passing glance. She was giggling, practically glued to his side, her purple hair falling in waves as she leaned toward him.

Van looked down, lost in thought.

“Van?” Ami’s voice softened, noticing his distant expression.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.

“I need a bathroom break. Be right back.”

His voice was flat, deadpan. Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed for the tavern’s toilet.

Inside the dim, cramped space, Van leaned against the door, exhaling a long, shaky breath.

He wiped his face with his hands, his mind racing.

‘Next time I might not get so lucky.’

He flicked his wrist, summoning his status window in front of him. The familiar screen hovered in the air, glowing faintly.

‘I need to stop relying on luck.’

He scrolled through the interface, his fingers trembling slightly.

‘Now it’s confirmed. The Goddess wants me dead. I don’t know why. I don’t know her reasons. But I know one thing—she won’t stop until I’m gone.’

His thoughts darkened as Unicus’s face flashed in his mind.

‘Whatever took over him… It was stronger than Alicia. Stronger than me.’

‘He was a hero, like me. Like Magus.’

Van’s gaze sharpened as he scrolled to the final section of his status window.

The part that spoke of Ascension.

His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the screen.

[… To begin your Ascension, you must agree to lose everything.]

“What..?”

[Reset to level 1. Sacrifice all your stats and skills.]

[In return, you will awaken as a God; and grow beyond all limits.]

Silence.

Van clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as he stared at the screen, his thoughts spiraling.

[DO YOU ACCEPT?]

[YES] [NO]

His eyes wandered below; there was a warning:

[Be warned: Refuse, and you will never have the choice again.]

[Godhood will forever be out of your reach. Its strength will forever elude you.]

Amoria leaned in, her sharp gaze trailing over the boy’s body, scrutinizing every detail. Marcy stood silently by the doorway, her arms crossed, a shadow in the dim light of the guild’s room. On the bed, Anne and Lizzy lay side by side, their breathing soft, steady. But Michael’s was not.

Sweat gathered on his brow, trickling down as he held her gaze.

He’d always thought Amoria was a beautiful woman — captivating, even.

But now, under her unyielding stare, he felt like a chick caught in a python’s coils, the serpent’s fangs hovering just above his throat, waiting to strike.

And he knew she had every reason to strike.
Marcy shared Amoria’s look — unblinking, cold, watching him with that same, chilling focus.

Michael couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.

Amoria’s fingers hovered over him for a moment longer before she straightened, her expression unreadable, her eyes narrowing as she looked him in the face.

A pause stretched between them — heavy, suffocating.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“You seem to be clean,” Amoria said, her voice calm, measured. “You’re not branded like Lizzy and Anne.” Her gaze sharpened, pinning him in place. “You should be grateful you weren’t dragged into this.”

Her words lingered — cold and deliberate.
Her gaze lingered longer.

“Alright. You can go, Michael.”

Michael swallowed hard and nodded, his movements stiff, mechanical.
Without a word, he inched toward the door — his heart pounding louder with every step.

“…To think both Lizzy and Anne got branded—” Marcy’s voice trembled, but then her expression twisted with rage. Her eyes flared as she clenched her fists, grinding her teeth as she looked at her daughter as she squirmed in her sleep; unable to fully catch a shut-eye.

“When I catch the fucker… When I catch the fucker who did this to her, I’ll—”

“Relax, Marcy,” Amoria cut in coldly.

“RELAX!? YOU TELL ME TO RELAX AFTER—”

Amoria turned to her with unyielding intensity, her gaze piercing through Marcy’s rage like a blade.

“Save your rage for when we find whoever did this,” Amoria said quietly, her voice even; causing Michael to twitch with yet another hard swallow; his face draining of colour when he thought of the implications.

“Right now, neither of them can reply to us truthfully. Whoever did this was meticulous.”

She glanced down at Lizzy, her expression softening for a fleeting moment.

“Luckily, Lizzy was smart enough to bypass the mark with her roundabout questions,” Amoria murmured, unable to hide a trace of pride in her voice.

Marcy’s breathing slowed, but her fists remained clenched.

“But we can’t push them further,” Amoria continued, her voice hardening again. “Whoever left that mark could’ve given them commands to harm themselves if they’re pressed too hard. If we prod too deep, we risk triggering it.”

Her gaze flickered toward Anne, who squirmed on the bed. Unlike Lizzy, Anne appeared to be in visible pain.

Amoria’s eyes narrowed.

“…This is a problem,” she muttered. “She’s resisting the sleeping spell. The owner must’ve instructed her not to be able to sleep.”

Marcy’s eyes widened in horror.
“What…?”

Michael mirrored her reaction, his eyes widening in disbelief.
‘What…!? No. No way. I… I didn’t give her that kind of order. I’d NEVER do that to her!’

His heart thundered in his chest as he spun toward Anne, watching her squirm restlessly on the bed.

Amoria’s gaze darkened as she traced the mark, her fingers hovering over it like it was something cursed.
“That mark… it’s high-grade,” she murmured, her voice cold and steady.

Marcy staggered back, her expression twisting into fury.
“Fuck…” The word hissed through clenched teeth. Her voice rose to a growl.
“FUCK! HOW DID I NOT NOTICE THIS?! HOW DID I LET THIS HAPPEN?!”

Michael’s mind spiraled into chaos, pieces snapping together in realization.
‘But… that’s… that’s a sleeping spell. Amoria Veil’s spell. There’s no way Anne could resist it… unless she was compelled to.’

‘No… no. But I didn’t… I NEVER gave her such an order!’

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as if it might erase the memory clawing its way to the surface.
And then it hit him — the exact moment.

His breath caught in his throat.
‘I told her… “Don’t collapse.”‘

His stomach twisted.
She hadn’t slept for over a day and still isn’t fully able to.

Because of him.

His lips pressed into a thin line, trembling as he glanced back at Anne. She shifted again, her face pale, her body restless. He swallowed hard, forcing down the tears that burned in his eyes.

Marcy shook her head, trembling with rage, cursing herself under her breath.
“How… how the hell did I miss this?”

Michael’s thoughts raced.
‘I’ll… I’ll fix it later. I’ll order her to sleep.’

But even as he thought it, panic tightened its grip around his throat.
‘But right now; I need to leave. I HAVE to leave.’

His gaze flicked to Amoria, then to Marcy, both of them lost in their own torment.
‘If they find out it was me… I’m done for.’

His face paled. His hands trembled.
Step by step, he edged toward the door, his movements slow, deliberate.

Inching closer to escape.

He was almost out of the room when—

“Michael.”

Amoria’s voice cut through the air.

The boy froze in place, his heart pounding in his chest.

Amoria’s gaze locked onto him with surgical precision. There was no warmth in her tone—only cold, calculated control.

“Come back,” Amoria said softly.

Michael froze, his hand hovering near the doorframe. His fingers trembled slightly before he lowered them to his side and turned around; stepping closer to Amoria.

Amoria turned to him, her eyes cold and unwavering.

“Lizzy mentioned she felt the ache during the break—with you and Anne. Interpretation: She was branded around then.”

Michael swallowed hard as both Amoria and Marcy stared him down.

“Tell us,” Amoria demanded, her tone leaving no room for hesitation. Her eyes locked onto his, unyielding.

Michael took a shaky breath.

“T-Tell… you…?” He struggled to speak, his words barely audible.

Amoria took another step forward, her presence bearing down on him like a weight.

“Tell us everything. What did you see when you stepped out of the guild? Which place did you go? What did you order? Who was the server? How many times did Anne or Lizzy take a break? Were they ever out of your sight? For how long? Where?”

The questions came fast, relentless. Michael’s gaze darted around the room, searching for an escape, his mind spiraling in panic.

“I… I…” His voice cracked.

‘This… This is madness… I need to tell them!’ Michael thought frantically, his chest tightening with fear. His lips parted as if to speak, but he hesitated.

‘W-what was I even thinking?! I need to end this while I still can!’

But then his thoughts flickered to Marcy’s enraged glare. To Anne and Lizzy’s frightened, confused expressions when he’d branded them.

He shivered.

‘I’ll die. If they find out, I’ll definitely die.’

The guilt crushed him like a stone in his chest.

‘I have to tell them it was from Bernard… Yeah, I’ll say it came from him…’

But his thoughts twisted again, turning darker.

‘No. No, he didn’t make me take it. He didn’t force me to do anything. I… I was the one who decided. It’s all my fault.’

Michael’s knees buckled slightly as his mind spiraled.

Amoria narrowed her eyes, ready to press further when Marcy suddenly stepped in, cutting through the tension.

“Chill, Amoria,” Marcy sighed, placing a hand on Amoria’s arm.

Amoria didn’t move, her gaze still locked on Michael.

Marcy shook her head. “He’s practically shittin’ bricks with you like that. We need him functioning, not falling apart.”

Michael blinked, his frantic breathing easing slightly.

Marcy knelt in front of him, her tone softer but still firm.

“I don’t have to tell you how urgent this is, right?” she said quietly, meeting his wide, terrified eyes.

Michael swallowed again, nodding slowly.

“Good,” Marcy whispered, her voice low and deliberate. “Then start talking.”

Michael exhaled before he started talking; looking at the ground; as if seeing the past unfold by his feet.

“I… We went outside, then to the nearest tavern right outside. Everything was… normal. The server was a blonde orc, chef… I didn’t see. We ate today’s special roast and drank grape juice. Neither of them took a bathroom break. After that, I told them I had to return home to my father… and that they should come back here without me.” His voice trembled as he spoke, his words stumbling over themselves.

“Other than that… I… I don’t know anything.“

He gulped, his hands trembling at his sides.

Amoria hummed thoughtfully, while Marcy looked down at the floor as though arranging Michael’s story across the wooden planks.

Michael’s fingers fidgeted, his breath quickening slightly as the two women processed his words.

“Hm… Then it must’ve happened after you left them. A slave mark requires physical contact—and it’s never not painful.”

Marcy took a thoughtful gaze at Amoria after her statement.

Michael exhaled in relief.

Amoria continued, “Where exactly did you part ways with them?”

“Right outside the tavern,” Michael replied timidly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Amoria nodded, standing up straight as she turned to Marcy.

“Alright… Let’s go. We’ll question everyone there.” She cast a brief glance over her shoulder at Michael. “Michael. Go home, or stay here so Misa can keep you safe.”

Marcy crossed her arms, her gaze narrowing on Michael.

“Funny how he wasn’t branded,” she commented coldly.

Michael visibly flinched, his shoulders tensing as he shifted uncomfortably.

Amoria’s expression remained impassive.

“…Well, as much as I hate to admit it,” she said, her gaze fixed on the door ahead, “Lizzy and Anne are much bigger targets… being our daughters.”

Marcy snorted softly. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to brand him too on the way, you know? Less loose ends.”

Amoria sighed as they stepped past Michael. “Time and efficiency, I suppose,” she muttered.

Michael’s jaw tightened as he stood frozen in place, watching them leave.

Behind them, Marcy chuckled internally.

‘Hmph… What a nice way to say he’s useless even as a slave.’

They left the room. Leaving Michael alone with Lizzy and Anne.

“Say,” Marcy began, her gaze fixed on Amoria.
“You seem to know quite a bit about the slave mark.”

Amoria remained quiet for a moment, her footsteps echoing softly as they descended the stairs.
“…Can we talk about it later?” she finally said, her voice measured, almost weary.

Marcy glanced at her but said nothing more.

As they reached the main hall, Marcy’s eyes settled on a familiar figure.
“Misa,” she called out.

The maid approached swiftly, bowing her head.
“Yes, Marcy?”

“Close the guild for today,” Marcy instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument.
“And keep an eye on the girls upstairs.”

Misa nodded without hesitation.
“Understood.”

Michael stood over them in silence. His gaze lingered on the two girls, the marks on their abdomen and back clearly visible. His expression darkened as a distant memory surfaced.

——————————

“What if I want to stop it?” Michael had asked.

Bernard shot him a hard look.
“Why? You know what’ll happen if you get caught, right?”

Michael nodded, resolute.
“I won’t say you had anything to do with it. I know the risks… But please. Just tell me how.”

Bernard let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over the mark he was holding.
“Wait here,” he said, taking it to the next room. “I’ll have one of our mages enchant it with a counter-spell.”

Minutes passed before Bernard returned, holding the enchanted crest.

“Here,” Bernard said, handing it back.
“To undo the mark’s influence, say: ‘Rellales, Re [their names].’ That’ll release them from its control.”

He paused, narrowing his gaze.
“But remember—this only works if you have the slave crest with you. Keep it on you at all times. And make sure no one hears you when you say the words. If someone finds out…” He trailed off, leaving the warning unspoken.

———————————-

Michael blinked, the memory fading as he looked down at Anne.

Her face was twisted with pain, dark circles under her eyes. She looked utterly exhausted. His chest tightened with guilt.

“I’m so sorry, Anne,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

He clenched his fists. ‘I left the crest at home,’ he realized, cursing himself.

‘I’ll get it. But until I do…’

Lowering himself to her level, he gently cupped his hand near her ear, whispering softly.

“I order you to sleep,” he said, his voice trembling with regret. Then, after a pause, realizing how absolute the slave mark’s commands were, he added:

“Sleep until your mind and body are fully rested. Then wake up. After that…” His voice softened even further.

“Sleep whenever you need to… or whenever you want to.”

Anne’s face started to soften, and she fell into a deep peaceful sleep.

Amidst the swirling regret and guilt, watching Anne fall into a peaceful slumber became Michael’s eye of the storm.

A brief, fleeting moment of calm.

But then, a thought struck him.

‘Wait…’

‘I just ordered her to sleep — and she did. Even though I didn’t have the crest on me… or anywhere near me.’

His heart skipped a beat.

‘Does it work without it?’ he wondered, the realization sending a jolt through him.

‘Bernard said I had to have the crest on me to issue the release command. But… maybe he was wrong. Maybe it’s worth a try.’

Michael took a shaky breath, his resolve hardening as he straightened his posture.

‘They’re still under Amoria Veil’s spell. I still have time, even if I free them now. Time to decide whether to run or… accept whatever punishment they’ll give me.’

He clenched his fists, looking down at Anne and Lizzy.

‘Neither of you deserve this. You don’t deserve to be slaves. I’m… sorry.’

With a deep breath, he spoke the words.

“Rellales, Re Anne Veil. Rellales, Re Elizabeth Veil.”

Elsewhere…

Bernard stood in a dimly lit room, the faint glow of the mark on his palm flickering like a dying ember.

A cruel smile tugged at his lips as he watched the mark pulse weakly.

“Oh, Mikey, Mikey, Mikey…” he whispered, shaking his head.
“Let this be a lesson for your naive, moronic self.”

He flexed his hand, watching the mark fade in and out.

“You do not half-ass things,” Bernard muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.
“And more than that… you do not spit in my face.”

The mark flickered once more before fading completely.

Bernard sighed, almost disappointed.
“Oh well.” He shrugged.
“This is goodbye, then. You won’t be missed.”

And at that very moment, the faintest rumble of an explosion echoed in the distance.

Michael’s head snapped toward the window.

His eyes widened as he saw smoke billowing in the direction of his house.

‘No… no, no, no!’ His pulse skyrocketed as he bolted to the window.

Flames licked at the sky, dark smoke rising higher with each passing second.

‘What the hell just happened?!’

His mind raced.

‘That’s… that’s the direction of my house!’

‘Dad!!’

His chest tightened with dread as he stumbled back from the window.

Then, the door creaked open behind him.

“Michael?” Misa called, stepping inside the room.

But he barely registered her voice.

‘No… no, that can’t be my house!’

His breath came in shallow gasps. His face paled, and without a second thought, he sprinted past Misa, nearly colliding with her in his wake.

“Michael!” Misa called after him, startled by his sudden dash.

She turned toward the window and froze.

Her eyes widened at the sight of smoke and fire rising in the distance.

“That direction is…!” she whispered, her voice trailing off as Michael bolted down the stairs.

‘Dad…! Dad…!’ The thought pounded in Michael’s mind, over and over, as he sprinted out of the guild.

Meanwhile, Misa walked over to the bed and gently sat beside the sleeping Anne and Lizzy.

‘As much as this worries me… I need to stay with them. They’re still in danger,’ she thought, her frown deepening with concern. ‘I’m sorry, Michael.’

Her gaze flickered between the two girls, lingering on their peaceful faces.

‘Anne looks better… I guess Amoria’s sleeping spell is stronger than the mark’s influence. She really is amazing, huh?’ she thought, gently brushing a hand over Anne’s hair.

But as her eyes shifted toward their exposed abdomens; her gaze darkened as she looked closely…

… At the slave marks still etched onto them.

A tremor ran through her hand as she pulled the blanket up, covering the girls and hiding the marks from view.

‘Miss Amoria, Miss Marcy… please, please catch whoever did this…’ she prayed silently, her expression hardening with quiet resolve as she stayed by their side.

“YOU STUPID…!!” Magus growled, his voice a raw snarl as he brought his fist down and struck her across the face.

Amoria gasped, head snapping to the side, her cheek burning with pain. Blood trickled from her nose, staining her lips and the green grass beside her with a deep shade of red.

“Ahh..! P-Please… I-I’m sorry…!” she whimpered, trembling as tears mixed with the streak of blood running down her face.

But her words fell on deaf ears.

“FUCKING… BITCH!!” he roared, his fury unrelenting. His fist crashed into her face again, the sickening crunch of bone reverberating through the air. Her nose broke with a brutal snap.

And still, his rage hadn’t burned out.

His fist rose again, trembling with wrath.

‘Of course he’s angry… I was so foolish.’ she thought, dazed as the taste of iron filled her mouth. Her head lolled back, resting on the grass beneath her.

Her vision blurred. Blood dripped down her chin, pooling on the dirt below.

Another blow landed, splitting her lip this time. Her head whipped to the side, hair falling across her face. She didn’t bother to brush it away.

“Magus… stop. She’s had enough!” Marcy’s voice rang out, soft, pleading—but hesitant. Submissive.

“She defied him,” Lalyn said coldly, folding her arms. There was no pity in her voice, only quiet resignation. “She needs to learn.”

“But—!”

Another fist struck Amoria. Harder this time.

Her head lolled again, the pain barely registering anymore, lost beneath the haze of confusion in her mind.

‘Why…? Why did I tell Van…?’

She blinked through the blood dripping into her eyes, staring up at Magus’s twisted expression—rage and betrayal carved into every line of his face.

‘Magus told me not to. He warned me.’

Another strike. Her jaw cracked painfully, but she barely noticed.

‘Why…? Why did I hurt him like that…? I don’t even understand myself.’

“Fucking bitch… Dumb, fucking whore!” Magus growled, his voice dripping with venom as he sat heavily on Amoria’s lap. Her face was swollen, bruises blooming across her skin where his fists had landed. Blood dripped from her split lip, staining her chin.

She could barely see through her half-shut eyes, but she could hear him. His voice cut through the haze like a blade.

“M-Magus… It… It’s okay… Maybe—maybe he’ll understand—” Marcy tried to speak, her voice trembling.

But Magus’s roar silenced her.

“NO, HE FUCKING WON’T, YOU STUPID BITCH!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the clearing. Marcy recoiled as if she’d been struck. Even Lalyn and the two assassins flinched at his outburst.

Magus stood, wiping the blood off his knuckles as he glared down at Amoria. His lips curled in disgust.

“Van wanted something genuine,” he hissed, pacing like a caged animal. “And that retarded whore took it all away by telling him.”

He spat on her, the glob of saliva hitting her cheek. She barely flinched.

Magus stopped pacing and crouched down in front of her, gripping her by the chin. His nails dug into her skin, forcing her to look up at him.

“All you had to do was play the part,” he said coldly.

“Be the perfect girlfriend. Make him believe you were immune to me. That you were special. But you just had to slip up, didn’t you?”

Amoria said nothing. She couldn’t. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, blood dripping onto the grass beneath her.

Magus’s grip tightened painfully.

“You fucking whore,” he said again, the words coming out like a curse.

The scene blurred—fading from her mind like a nightmare evaporating in the morning light.

“Mom?”

Amoria blinked, pulled from the memory by the soft tug on her shirt. Her mind drifted back to the present like smoke dissipating in the air.

She looked down to see Lizzy, her daughter, gazing up at her with wide, curious eyes.

“Oh, yes, Lizzy? What’s up?” Amoria asked, her voice softening as she wiped her trembling hands on her skirt.

Lizzy hesitated, shifting on her feet. Her gaze flickered downward, then back up to her mother’s face.

“I… I feel this itch in my lower belly,” Lizzy said quietly. “Can you… Can you look? Please?”

Amoria smiled faintly and knelt beside her. “Of cour—”

She froze.

Her eyes narrowed.

‘She wants me to look…? Not heal her…?’

Amoria’s fingers twitched as she steadied herself, pushing aside the unsettling thought. Ever since Lizzy had turned nine, she’d always asked to be healed when something was wrong. Whether it was the smallest of stomach aches or the worst headaches, her daughter never once asked for a simple check.

Amoria knelt behind the counter, out of sight from anyone who might be watching. She lifted Lizzy’s shirt, exposing her lower abdomen.

She scanned her daughter’s pale skin carefully, her eyes narrowing as they swept over every inch.

‘Hmm… nothing out of the ordinary…’ she thought, though unease prickled at her senses.

“A tummy ache?” she asked, her voice light but careful.

Lizzy shook her head. “Oh, uh… No. Not really. I don’t have a tummy ache. It just… it hurt there a bit ago.”

Amoria’s gaze sharpened.

“When?” she asked softly.

Lizzy fidgeted. “Oh… uh… a bit ago. Since… since me, Anne, and Michael went out for a break.”

Amoria hummed thoughtfully. “I see… Did you eat something bad, maybe?”

Lizzy shook her head again. “No.”

Amoria’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous crossing them.

“Did someone… do something to you?”

Her voice was soft, but her eyes glinted with madness momentarily.

Lizzy’s eyes widened in alarm.

“No! Of course not!” she blurted out, recoiling slightly. She could feel the intensity radiating from her mother.

Amoria’s gaze lingered on her for a long, tense moment.

Finally, Amoria nodded with a soft smile. “Okay.”

“I see.” She sighed softly. “Well, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. You seem perfectly fine to me,” she said, rising to her feet.

“Just in case, I’ll cast a healing spell on you—”

“Ah, haha, no need, Mom! I don’t need to be healed!” Lizzy quickly reassured her, waving her hands as Amoria raised her palm toward her. “It passed, so it’s all okay! I’ll just go back to work.”

Amoria lowered her hand slowly. “Oh…” she murmured as Lizzy turned away.

Her gaze lingered on her daughter’s back.

And then, a memory flickered through her mind.

—————-

“Just in case, can you please heal me? I prefer to play it safe,” Lizzy said in her memory, her voice soft and cautious.

—————

Amoria’s eyes widened—a sudden, piercing clarity cutting through her haze. Her gaze sharpened, her pupils shrinking like a predator’s.

‘That’s not like her.’

Her hand trembled slightly before she clenched it into a fist at her side.

As Lizzy walked away from the counter, Amoria subtly raised a finger from below her waist and whispered, her voice low and guttural:

“P̷a̴rå̵l̴̄ax.”

The word slipped from her lips like a curse.

Lizzy staggered—her body swaying once before collapsing to the floor.

To any onlookers, it would appear as though she had fainted out of nowhere.

Amoria darted forward, catching her daughter before she hit the ground.

“Lizzy?!” Amoria cried out, her voice a perfect note of concern. Her arms wrapped around her daughter, holding her close.

“W-What’s wrong with her?!” Marcy and Misa rushed over, panic flashing across their faces as they looked down at the now-sleeping girl.

“Hm… I’ll try to heal her,” Amoria said softly, raising her hand over Lizzy. A soft green glow shimmered from her palm, casting a calming light over her daughter’s small frame.

But it was just for show.
No spell was cast. Not a single effect rippled over the girl.

Marcy’s eyes flickered, her gaze narrowing slightly as she noticed the blank spell. Her lips parted, but she said nothing—watching, waiting.

Amoria glanced up with a calm smile. “I guess she just needs some rest. Thank you for your concern!”

Without hesitation, she lifted Lizzy into her arms, holding her daughter with the gentle care of a mother—but her eyes remained cold, distant.

“Misa, you can cover for her, right?” Amoria asked, her tone light.

“O-Of course!” Misa nodded quickly, hurrying to reassure the concerned patrons.

“Can I use one of the rooms?” Amoria turned to Marcy with a soft, polite smile.

Marcy blinked. “Yeah. Go for it.”

Amoria nodded in thanks and carried her daughter upstairs, her footsteps steady and calm. Marcy watched her go, her mind racing.

‘Something’s off… Something’s going on here. That priestess wouldn’t use a blank spell outta nowhere. It seems like I was the only one who noticed it.’ Marcy glanced around, her eyes scanning the room for any suspicious movement.

Upstairs, Amoria nudged the door to a vacant room open with her foot. The door let out a low creak as she stepped inside, the sound fading into the stillness of the house. She closed the door softly behind her.

Her gaze drifted down to Lizzy’s peaceful face, the child still sound asleep in her arms.

Amoria crossed the room with steady steps and laid her daughter gently on the bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lizzy’s forehead. The girl’s breathing was calm, undisturbed by the world outside.

But Amoria’s expression hardened.

She straightened, her posture tense as she pointed her palm toward her daughter. Her gaze darkened—a thousandfold. Cold. Surgical. Detached.

Her voice came out soft, but with unyielding purpose.

“Appeuhurs, Vark Melaver.”

A flicker of energy passed through her hand.

And then—

The slave mark appeared, etched into Lizzy’s skin. There, on her belly. The very spot Lizzy had complained of hurting.

Amoria’s breath stilled as she stared. Silence hung in the room like a heavy veil.

She stood upright, closing her eyes for a long moment. Taking it in. Processing the truth laid bare before her.

When she opened her eyes again, they were shadowed with resolve.

‘Oh, Goddess who governs us,’ Amoria thought as her gaze lifted toward the ceiling.
‘Please forgive the poor soul I’m about to send to your realm.’

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes glinting with a quiet, simmering fury.

‘And forgive me… for the state they’ll be in.’

‘I am Alicia, the current Demon Lord,’ she thought, her eyes scanning the documents spread before her in the vast expanse of her throne room.

‘Approximately two years ago, an insolent human dared to enter my castle… and proposed to me,’ she recalled, the memory surfacing with a mix of irritation and bewilderment.

‘The first thing I noticed, before my anger could even take hold, was this,’ she mused, raising her hand to inspect the round seal etched into her palm.

‘No breach of the peace contract,’ she noted with a faint sigh. ‘The seal remained intact, even after a human infiltrated our stronghold and committed the absurd act of proposing marriage.’

‘Naturally, I thought it impossible,’ she continued, rising from her seat and moving toward the towering window. ‘If he was truly human, he would fall under Varolia’s domain. His intrusion should have signaled the start of the second great war—our long-awaited salvation.’

‘Varlog and I concluded it must have been a prank,’ she thought, her brow furrowing as she recalled the incident.

‘There was no other explanation. Van Hellix—an insignificant human—had been part of the group that bested me. Although his contribution in that battle was dismal at best. And yet… there he was, standing in my castle, as if nothing had happened after I had killed him with my bare hands.’

She exhaled sharply, her fingers brushing the seamless glass, ‘But then he kept coming back. Over and over again. We eventually concluded it was really him. And not a prank; and that there had to be a reason behind why his presence wasn’t a breach of the divine contract. But other than that…’

Her gaze dropped momentarily. ‘… I had no intention of entertaining Van Hellix. He was a mere annoyance… But he was also a summoned hero.’

She clenched her fist, her eyes glowing faintly as her thoughts darkened.

‘Then it dawned on us. We could mark him as a slave. If none of the Gods interfered so far, there wouldn’t be any form of retribution once he’s branded. We concluded that she doesn’t watch over him. Perfect for us.’

She carefully looked out to her realm, ‘We began planning just days after his absurd quest to claim me as his trophy began. Imagine—the hero of humanity bound to us as a slave. The purpose of the great war fulfilled at last. No longer would I kill him. No… next time, I would seal him. Make him my eternal slave.’

Her gaze flicked to the glowing seal on her palm.

‘But Varlog…’ she mused, ‘Varlog had a different solution.’

— 2 YEARS AGO —

“Why not use his infatuation rather than antagonize him outright, my Lord?” Varlog proposed, his voice calm and measured.

Alicia’s gaze sharpened as she turned toward him. “What do you mean, Varlog? If we seal him, we will have a hero under our control. Our purpose. Cease this nonsense and prepare the staff to mark him,” she commanded coldly, her tone brooking no argument.

Varlog bowed slightly but held his ground. “My Lord, please, hear me out—just this once.”

Alicia narrowed her eyes but nodded slowly. “Proceed.”

Varlog clasped his hands behind his back, his expression grave. “Sealing a hero has always brought misfortune,” he began, his tone deliberate. “It is true that Van Hellix is unsupervised by any deity, and on the surface, it may seem risk-free. But he is still a summoned hero, and they often carry… unpredictable consequences.”

Alicia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then what do you propose?” she asked, her curiosity piqued despite her irritation.

“Isolate him, my Lord,” Varlog advised, his voice soft yet persuasive. “Use his illogical, desperate infatuation for you to our advantage.”

Alicia’s fists clenched as she stood abruptly. “I refuse. I will not reduce myself to some mere trophy to a human—”

“You shan’t, my Lord,” Varlog interrupted, his voice firm but deferential, his sharp gaze meeting hers.

He stepped forward slightly, his eyes flaring with conviction. “You merely present yourself. Create the illusion that you are attainable to him. This human reeks of desperation. And desperation is easily manipulated. You do not catch a fish by offering it food freely—you show it the bait, the glimmer it desires, and wait for it to come to you. Closer… and closer… until the hook catches its prey.”

Alicia’s gaze softened, her anger subsiding into confusion. “…I see,” she murmured, tilting her head at him. “So… what would you have me do, then, Varlog?”

“Why, what you’ve already been doing, my Lord!” Varlog said with a sly smile. “Refuse him—again, and again, and again. And while you do so, subtly draw him into our fold. I’ll personally assist with that task from time to time. Show him around, introduce him to our people. After all, if he’s open-minded enough to propose to his former arch-nemesis, he must have the capacity to see things from our perspective. Perhaps even lend us his strength. Make him feel tied to us—make this castle feel like his home. And before long, you’ll have your hero… without the need for a slave mark.”

“He will be your eternal slave, bound to you without ever realizing it,” Varlog concluded, his tone calm yet sinister. “You wouldn’t even need to agree to his absurd proposal. And even if you do, he seems to be drawn to coquettish torment. You’ve killed him several times, and yet he keeps returning. Alternate between warmth and coldness—give him fleeting glimpses of something he will never truly attain—and he will remain enchanted. You’ll keep him on a spiked leash, forever yearning yet forever out of reach.”

Alicia closed her eyes for a moment, letting out a long sigh. “…Haaah… Very well, Varlog. Let us try, then,” she said reluctantly, her tone a mixture of skepticism and resignation.

————- A DAY AGO; WHEN ALICIA WENT TO VISIT VAN IN THE CAPITAL ———————

“My Lord,” Varlog announced as he materialized before Alicia in the throne room in the demonic capital.

“Varlog,” she acknowledged, her gaze lifting from the mountain of documents on her desk to meet her advisor’s.

“For you to use one of your teleportation stones… Did something go wrong?” she asked, her tone sharp and inquisitive. Varlog’s eyes briefly flicked to the towering piles of paperwork and then lingered on the ring adorning her finger.

“It appears,” he said, his voice cold, “that our tool has grown… rusted.”

“…” Alicia’s eyes fell, her lips pressing into a tight line as a deep frown shaded her expression.

“My Lord,” Varlog said, his tone firm, “you mustn’t forget why you wear that ring. I understand the human may have momentarily intrigued you, but you must remember—”

“I’m not infatuated…” Alicia interjected, swallowing hard. “I haven’t been.”

“Good,” Varlog replied, his tone lightening only slightly. “Because the fish still needs reeling. He appears to be in a crisis and could use… support from the one he foolishly believes to be his loving wife.”

With that, Varlog turned to leave, his words hanging in the air.

“I’m coming,” Alicia said suddenly, rising abruptly from her chair.

A faint smirk tugged at Varlog’s lips, unseen by Alicia, as he activated another teleportation stone and vanished.

————–PRESENTLY, BACK AT THE CAPITAL—————-

“Master Varlog,” Yilla addressed him hesitantly as they sat in their modest quarters within the guild in the capital.

“I… I’m thinking of leaving the Demon Lord’s ranks,” Yilla admitted quietly. “Returning to live with my family in the surrounding villages.”

Varlog raised an eyebrow. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I cannot see Van as just a tool, as you do,” Yilla said, their voice laced with conflict.

“But I don’t see him as a tool,” Varlog countered calmly, his tone almost amused.

“But…” Yilla began, their confusion growing, “you just told me that Van proposing to the Demon Lord was your plan all along—”

“Ah,” Varlog interrupted with a sigh, “that’s what I told you I said to our Lord.”

Yilla’s confusion deepened as Varlog continued, his voice softer now. “Our Lord is burdened by constant stress. She’s still in her early forties, forced into this role because the destined successor—the one who was supposed to bear this weight—ran away under the same crushing pressure.”

“…Your son,” Yilla murmured.

“Indeed,” Varlog began, his voice heavy with thought.

“She was so consumed by war and the pursuit of victory that she lost sight of herself. As I grew older, watching her, I couldn’t help but ask myself… Is it truly worth it? To see another promising child sacrifice herself for a role forced upon her?” His gaze drifted to the cityscape outside their window, the soft glow of lights reflecting his somber expression.

“We are no longer at war. There is no need to seek it, either. While battle invigorates us, war and loss do not—despite what our ancestors might claim. What she needs now is reprieve, not conflict. Someone she can let loose with, to remind her there is more to life than duty. And when I saw that human walking into our castle, I thought… Why not him?”

He turned back to Yilla, his eyes sharp yet contemplative.

“He is not one of her subjects. He is an outsider, something fresh, something different. He possesses the audacity to challenge her norms at every turn. And even if she accidentally kills him, he just comes back. Stronger every time. For someone like her, who has known nothing but obligation and struggle, he represents something entirely new—a chance to learn what fun feels like, even if only for a fleeting moment.”

“So…” Yilla whispered, her eyes widening with realization, “this whole time, you’ve been…”

“Yes, dear Yilla,” Varlog said softly, his tone tinged with mischief. “I’ve been fooling our precious Demon Lord—for my own sake and peace of mind.”

“But… While I admire your intention,” Yilla shook her head, her brows furrowing, “the Demon Lord… she believes it’s all just a ruse. She doesn’t truly love Van, does she?”

“Hm, Her Majesty thinks she’s only playing a game,” Varlog replied with an amused smile.

“But I assure you, at this moment, she feels something entirely different.” His eyes gleamed with a mischievous glint.

‘Well, at this point; the only person she denies these feelings to is herself… She did cry quite a bit when he left 3 months ago…’ Varlog thought with a sigh.

—— BACK AT THE DEMONIC REALM ——

‘… Darn that Varlog,’ Alicia thought, her gaze lingering on the view outside the window.

‘I know this is all just part of his scheme… But does he really have to call him a fish or a tool at every opportunity?’ Her cheeks flushed faintly as her eyes shifted to the ring on her finger.

‘He’s… more than that, you know?’

‘Just a bit.’

Her head dipped slightly, a small swallow catching in her throat as she stared at the ring. ‘He needs to hurry up and finish everything in the capital… S-so…’

‘So that I can… continue manipulating him here.’

Her hands clenched slightly as her cheeks warmed further, her gaze refusing to leave the shimmering ring.

‘All for our glory… And no other reason.’

“That was…”

“…easy,” Mika and Rika muttered in unison, standing amidst the carnage in the dungeon. Blood stained their faces and bodies, dripping onto the floor as they scanned the room with flat, detached gazes. Around them lay the corpses of guards, while hundreds of prisoners stared at them from within cages and cells.

“Kinda expected we’d need a whole arc for this…” Rika murmured, her voice tinged with faint disbelief.

“No, Rika,” Mika interjected sharply, her tone steady. “Some of these might’ve given us trouble.”

“That was before we joined Magus,”

“It was bound to be easy…” Rika chimed in.

“…as we are now,” they concluded in tandem, their words hanging heavy in the silent dungeon. The prisoners looked on, their wonder mingling with fear as they took in the two bloodstained figures.

“T-Those are…”

“Mika and Rika. You two escaped Salem as well!?” a prisoner called out from one of the cells, their voice trembling with hope.

“Indeed,” the twins chimed in unison, their calm demeanor unnerving yet reassuring.

“Now, let’s make haste and free you so that…”

“…you can return to your homes. Be…”

“…wary, though. It will be a long…”

“…walk back to the Capital,” they cautioned, their words flowing seamlessly as they moved swiftly, unlocking the cells and releasing the prisoners.

“Thank you… thank you!!” the newly freed slaves cried out, their voices a mix of relief and gratitude as they passed the twins. Despite their neglected state, their beauty still shone through—Salem had chosen his victims meticulously. Well-endowed, male and female, from all races—they were a tragic reflection of his twisted tastes.

‘Michael… honey…’ a woman thought silently, clutching her young daughter tightly as they joined the growing crowd of freed captives. ‘We’re coming…!’

—– MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE CAPITAL ——

“Lizzy, Anne—you’re back sooner than usual,” Marcy called out, finishing up with a patron as she noticed the pair walk through the door, their faces calm and unbothered.

“We didn’t want to keep you and Miss Misa alone for long,” Lizzy replied casually.

“…” Marcy’s eyes narrowed slightly as she scanned the two. Something felt off.

“Where’s Michael?” she asked, her tone sharp with impatience.

“He had to go back home,” Anne replied. “Said he needed to help his father with something. He’ll be back soon.”

“Haaaah… Fine,” Marcy sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I suppose that’s on me for giving you such a long time off. Alright, back to work, you two.”

A door creaked open, sunlight spilling into the darkened house. The air was heavy with the smell of rot, the interior trashed and neglected.

“Hello, Dad,” Michael called flatly as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His expression was blank, his gaze distant.

“Michael,” his father rasped, barely lifting his head from where he slumped over the table. A cup of ale, only half-full, sat forgotten by his side.

“Why… why aren’t you outside?” his father asked, his voice rough and slurred.

“Oh, I…” Michael cleared his throat, stepping past him toward his room. “I needed to pick something up,” he said quietly.

“…Okay,” his father muttered, his tone flat. After a pause, he added, “Just… hurry up and leave.”

The words hit harder than Michael expected, making him flinch slightly as he entered his room. He sat on the edge of his bed, pulling out the slave crest and carefully tucking it beneath the mattress.

“…It isn’t so bad here, Dad,” Michael murmured, his voice soft and trembling as he pursed his lips.

“Don’t lie to me. I taught you not to lie to me, didn’t I?” his father muttered, his gaze fixed on the cup on the table before him.

“Everything here smells like garbage. I’m… garbage. Hurry up and leave, so you won’t get the scent.”

“Can you stop talking like that!?” Michael shouted from his room, his voice trembling as his gaze dropped to the floor.

He pressed his lips tightly together, trying to contain his emotions, before suddenly bolting out of the room and standing before his slouched father.

“IT ISN’T YOUR FAULT! It’s… that PIECE OF SHIT’S FAULT!” Michael’s voice cracked as he pointed an accusatory finger into the air. “He seduced them. Tricked them. But this time, I won’t let it happen. This time, I’ll be prepared, and—”

“This time…?” his father rasped, his voice low but sharp. His half-lidded eyes flickered open slightly, locking onto Michael’s.

“Michael…” his father murmured, his tone heavy, “what are you doing?”

The silence between them thickened.

“Nothing,” Michael finally muttered, his voice quieter, almost defensive. “It’s not YOU! It’s THEM. And HIM. The way he… tricked them. It’s their fault. It’s HIS fault.” His fists clenched tightly, trembling as he looked down at the floor, his voice shaking with frustration.

Another long pause settled between them, the room filled only with the sound of their shallow breathing.

“Michael,” his father repeated, his gaze dropping to the table, unable to meet his son’s eyes. His voice was hoarse but steady.

“Don’t talk badly about your mother and sister. When you grow up, you’ll realize… it’s up to the man to make ’em want to stay. And if they go… it’s on the man, too.”

“But… that’s just… too cruel!” Michael cried out, his voice breaking with frustration.

“Mom loved you! She loved me, and so did Sister! Why would they leave unless they were tricked or forced to do it!?”

“…” His father stared blankly at the cup in front of him, his gaze distant as the words hung in the air.

“The world’s just that cruel, Michael,” he muttered at last, his voice heavy and hollow. “Things like that happen. The sooner you accept it, the less… the less it’ll hurt. At some point, I was unable to make your mother happy. That’s why she left.”

“So, that’s acceptance?” Michael’s voice flared, trembling with anger. “Drowning yourself in booze like a fucking corpse for years on end?”

“…” His father didn’t respond right away, his grip tightening slightly around the cup.

“…I never said I accepted it,” he finally admitted, his voice low and uneven. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as though the words were stuck in his throat. “I feel like it wasn’t fair either. But I know it’s true. That’s why my feelings don’t matter. They’re… invalid.”

Michael’s breath hitched as he stared at his father, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as the words sank in.

“…I’m going back to work,” he said abruptly, his voice cold and clipped. Without another glance, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

He paused, gripping the doorknob tightly before hissing over his shoulder, “You gave up too fast on Mom and Sister. I’ll… I’ll NEVER give up. She LOVED us. She wouldn’t be… SEDUCED into NOT LOVING US.”

The words came out sharp and venomous as he yanked the door open, letting it slam shut behind him.

‘That’s right…’ Michael thought as he stormed down the street, his mind swirling with frustration and resolve. His memories flashed back to Lizzy’s conflicted expression when she looked at Van, and how Anne had been so quick to ask him out.

‘It has to be a ruse. A trick… It was MOM. She wouldn’t have JUST LEFT.’ His breathing quickened as the thoughts churned.

‘That’s why it doesn’t make sense that you feel that way, Liz. Anne. IT DOESN’T.’

‘And until I find out why…’

He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.

‘I’m… I’m sorry, but I will keep the mark on.’ he nearly ground his teeth in frustration as he marched.

Meanwhile, his father remained at the table, staring into his cup. The silence wrapped around him like a heavy shroud, isolating him further in the dim, decaying room.

Elsewhere, in a certain tavern nearby…

“Then, my lady and I shall take our leave,” Vaelthir muttered as he rose from his chair.

“Wait,” Sylva said, her head snapping toward him. They all sat around the table in Galdo’s tavern, the air heavy with unspoken tension.

“My lady?” Vaelthir asked, glancing at her as she stood to face the group.

“Let’s stay in touch,” Sylva said, her voice firm yet tinged with unease.

“With what we now know about the Goddess’s decree… we need to tread carefully. No one else should learn of what transpired, and we must be cautious about who we trust.” She hesitated, her gaze dropping.

“That includes…”

She swallowed hard before continuing, her tone grim. “Van Hellix’s sacrifice and Unicus’s death.”

“I agree,” Savathon muttered, his gaze shifting away from the group.

“Oh?” Vaelthir scoffed lightly, turning along with the others to face the Dragonkin.

“Surprising words from someone as hotheaded as you, lizard.”

“Shut up, you pompous elf,” Savathon shot back. “When something makes sense, it makes sense. As thrilling as it sounds, even I’m not foolish enough to take on an entire city by myself.” His tone was dismissive, yet resolute.

“Then it’s decided,” Arnolt interjected, nudging Ami gently. “You too, girl.”

“Huh?” Ami murmured, lifting her head to reveal her tear-streaked face.

“We’re a party now,” Arnolt said. “We won’t let their deaths be in vain.”

“I’m not askin’ ya to show up for every quest together or stick to each other’s asses. But if any of us discovers something, we share it. Understood?” the dwarf grumbled.

“…Reasonable,” Vaelthir nodded, with Sylva following suit—though her agreement was noticeably more enthusiastic.

Savathon gave an agreeing nod, joined reluctantly by the two human warriors beside him.

“Deaths, he says,” Ami growled under her breath. The group turned to her as she lowered her head.

“You’re all just saying whatever you want. Van is going to come back… He… promised…!” Her voice cracked as sobs overtook her, her shoulders trembling.

A heavy silence settled over the table, the weight of grief dragging their gazes downward.

Vaelthir exchanged a look with Arnolt.

“Go,” Arnolt said softly. “I’ll stay with the kid. Besides, I’ve barely had enough to drink.” He took another slow sip from his cup, his weariness showing in every gesture.

‘How awful,’ Sylva thought, casting a sorrowful glance at Ami.

‘He made a sacrifice to save us all… but to make such a promise in his state? What was he thinking?’

‘… Well, he was human. Perhaps he also wanted to believe it?’ Sylva thought, her gaze falling on the empty seat at the table that Ami had reserved for Van beside her.

‘… Maybe he also wanted to believe he could live?’ she mused somberly.

‘Ah, what am I saying…’ She shook her head, snapping herself from her thoughts as Vaelthir called for her.

“My lady, let us leave.”

“Right…” she answered quietly.

‘He is gone. He will be forever remembered as a hero by these people…’ She placed a palm over her chest, feeling the weight of the moment.

‘… And by me,’ she thought, finally, as she turned to follow Vaelthir—only to bump into something solid, like a metallic wall.

“Ahhk!” she exclaimed, stumbling back a step.

Arnolt was the first to notice. The sound of Sylva’s elven flesh colliding with metal reached his ears with unmistakable clarity. His eyes flared wide in recognition.

‘BLACK METAL!’ The thought surged through his mind as he snapped his head toward the source of the sound—where Sylva had been struck.

Even Vaelthir, the composed elf, turned his gaze and could not suppress a sharp scoff at the sight before him.

“T-THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE! HOW…!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in disbelief, drawing Savathon’s attention. The Dragonkin’s lizard-like eyes widened and then narrowed, his chest tightening with awe.

“By the Gods…” he growled, his heart pounding in his chest.

Sylva blinked rapidly, shaking her head as she turned to see what—or who—she had bumped into.

“Y-…” Her breath hitched, and she gasped, her hands instinctively rising to her mouth as her eyes locked onto the figure before her. “Van… Hellix!”

“Ami,” a soft voice called, reverberating with familiarity.

“… I’m not too late, am I?” The words hung in the air, directed at Ami, whose head remained lowered. Her breath came in sharp gasps, caught between sobs she fought to suppress. She dared not look up, terrified that if she did, the voice—this hope—would vanish like morning dew on a leaf.

“Step away from him, MY LADY!! That can’t be Hellix!” Vaelthir shouted, his bow rising in a single fluid motion to point directly at the figure.

His voice snapped everyone from their stupor. Ami’s head remained bowed, her breath trembling with anticipation, while Sylva stood frozen, words caught in her throat.

“… It is him, you rash elf,” Arnolt muttered, his tone quiet and deliberate, as if even speaking required effort to process the sight before him.

“How would you know!? It could be some illusion—” Vaelthir started.

“Pipe down. I’d know,” Arnolt interrupted, his voice firm as he stood from his seat and walked toward the figure—toward Van.

Stopping before him, Arnolt tapped his knuckles lightly against the armor. A faint metallic ring echoed.

“Nothing can replicate this texture, this sound. The air around this particular armor. The fine craftsmanship, the way it fits his frame perfectly… I don’t know how he’s here. I don’t know how he’s alive… but he is.” Arnolt’s gaze lifted to meet Van’s, his usual one-eyed stare more intense, his squint deep with focus.

“… Nice seeing ya, brat.”

At those words, Ami raised her head slowly, her eyes wide with disbelief as they met his.

A sharp, youthful face. Eyes as brown as the earth beneath them. Hair as dark as a starless night. A smile as serene as flowing water.

“Hey, Ami,” Van said softly. She barely registered the two other humans standing beside him, their presence eclipsed entirely by his.

“Sorry for the scare,” he said, his voice steady as he stood before them.

“You—” Sylva began, but before she could finish, Ami threw herself at him, clutching him with all her might. Her arms trembled, but she held on as if letting go would make him vanish once more.

Not a single sob or hiccup escaped her; it was as though every ounce of her strength had been poured into that embrace.

Van’s expression softened. With a subtle smile, he lowered his hand, gently brushing it against her head in a comforting gesture.

“Well, aren’t you mister popular, little bitch,” a sharp voice suddenly cut through the moment.

Van let out a short sigh as the rest of the group flicked their heads toward the figures standing just behind him.

Mirias and Belial.

“Sup?” Belial said, his smirk as sharp as his tone.