The world was gray, choked with the thick, cloying scent of charcoal and burnt cedar. There was no wind, only the rhythmic shing-shink of a whetstone against steel.

  Ray Melborne sat cross-legged amidst the swirling embers, his presence anchoring the chaos. He wore the strange, layered armor of a culture that didn't exist in this world—laced plates of dark iron and crimson silk that bristled with a cold, predatory intent. Resting across his lap was the katana, a slender curve of folded steel that seemed to drink the light of the dying fires around them.

  Lucien stood opposite him, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Finally, the time has come to confront him. This was the man who would eventually dismantle the world.

  "You've grown arrogant," Ray said, his voice a low vibration that felt like a blade pressed against Lucien's throat. He didn't look up from his sword. "You think because you can tilt the scales, the weight of the world no longer applies to you."

  Lucien didn't argue. He couldn't. He activated his thunder sigil, and the air snapped with the smell of death. Lightning coiled around his arms, blue and violent, intertwining with the smoke of the battlefield. He pushed his Equilibrium to the brink, forcing the "tilt" into his favor. He felt faster, stronger—a god in a realm of mortals.

  He lunged.

  The lightning-streaked strike should have ended it. But Ray didn't even flinch. He rose, the smoke around him twisting as if it were an extension of his own limbs. He matched Lucien’s speed with a terrifying, effortless fluidity. Every time Lucien "tilted" the power in his direction, Ray’s aura surged to meet it, neutralizing the advantage as quickly as it was created.

  Then, the sensation of the "tilt" began to slip. The artificial advantage Lucien had carved out started to return to normal, the scales leveling with a sickening lurch.

  Panic flared in Lucien's chest. He was exposed.

  Ray’s eyes finally met his—cold, focused, and utterly devoid of hesitation. He stepped into Lucien’s space, his hand blurring toward the hilt of his sheathed blade.

  「煙刃の居合」

  Enjin no Iai.

  (Smoke-Blade Draw.)

  There was no flash of light, only a sudden absence of air. A line of silver divided the world, cutting through the lightning, the smoke, and finally, Lucien himself.

  Lucien bolted upright, a strangled cry dying in his throat.

  He was drenched in sweat, his hands shaking so violently he had to grip his knees to stay upright. His chest ached with the ghost of a wound that wasn't there. He scanned his surroundings frantically, looking for the glint of a katana or the smell of cedar, but there was only a cold, damp silence.

  It had been a dream—a warning from his own subconscious.

  Lucien collapsed back against the furs, the realization that he was in a massive, high-quality room doing little to ease the phantom ache in his chest. The space felt different from a standard manor; the air was thick with the scent of aged incense and beeswax, carrying a heavy, pious atmosphere that suggested a sanctuary or a cathedral's private quarters.

  His body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder; every muscle fiber protested with a sharp, burning reminder of the energy he had channeled. He had pushed himself too far. He looked at his trembling hands and let out a long, weary sigh. If he ever wanted to face the reality of that dream—the version of Ray Melborne that didn't just match his Equilibrium but surpassed it—he needed to change.

  In this life, he wouldn't settle for having a fragile frame that broke after one big move. He wanted his teacher’s physique: a body built for the endless battlefield, muscular yet elastic, with an endurance that defied the laws of nature. His teacher had been a titan who never faltered, a man whose very presence commanded the space around him. Lucien’s current thirteen-year-old body felt pitifully weak by comparison.

  "Young master?"

  Sebas’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. The butler looked like he hadn't slept in a century. His face was a mask of pale exhaustion, and his hands shook as he held out a bowl of broth.

  "Where... where are we?" Lucien rasped, his throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper.

  "We are at the church, Young Master," Sebas whispered, his eyes darting toward the heavy, ornate doors.

  Lucien tried to sit up again, gritting his teeth against the lightning-bolt pains shooting through his spine. But he couldn't; his muscles felt like frayed rope. Sebas immediately stood up to help him sit up, propping him against a stack of silk pillows.

  "How long have I been out?" Lucien said.

  Sebas gave him a complicated look, his eyes brimming with a mix of relief and lingering terror. "You have been out for 3 months, sir."

  "What?" Lucien snapped his neck toward him—a decision he immediately regretted since it hurt like hell. A white-hot spike of agony flared from his cervical vertebrae down to his tailbone.

  Lucien eased back into the furs with Sebas’s help, his mind churning even faster than his aching body. Three months. It was a staggering price to pay, made even more bitter by the fact that his body was still racked with agony despite the long slumber.

  "What are the results?" Lucien asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  "It seems the curse was fully cleansed, sir," Sebas said, his face lighting up with a rare, genuine beam. "The Paladins investigated and confirmed it, but they also sent a specialized team of experts to check on it as well."

  "Some experts," Lucien snorted, the movement making his chest twinge. "Where were they when we needed help?"

  Sebas smiled at that, though his hands still shook slightly as he set the broth aside. "Well, I wouldn't be surprised that the curse disappeared, sir. When the light blew up... a gentle voice appeared. I don't know what was said, but everything around us was purified. It was such a powerful light that even the Paladins’ auras paled in comparison."

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  Sebas leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a tone of pure wonder. "In the end, the baby cried. And the crystal on its eyes... it just melted away. I don't know exactly what happened after that because I blacked out," he revealed sheepishly. "I fell asleep and I thought it was the curse, but this time when I slept... it felt warm and safe."

  Lucien nodded his head slowly. He remembered that warmth. He also remembered that odd world and those weird beings. Especially the tall woman. Was she a god. Are gods real?

  It was then that a surprised gasp broke the pious silence of the room. A young acolyte stood at the doorway, his eyes wide with shock, dropping a tray of linens. Behind him stood Father Julius, a man whose presence felt like aged parchment and heavy incense.

  Father Julius stepped forward, his eyes fixing on the conscious boy with a mixture of reverence and intense scrutiny.

  "Go," Father Julius told the trembling acolyte, his voice low and commanding. "Inform their excellencies. Tell them the child of light has finally returned to us."

  The acolyte scrambled out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Father Julius turned back to Lucien, his hands tucked into his sleeves. The room felt smaller now, the religious weight of the Church pressing in from all sides.

  "You have caused quite a stir, young master," Julius said, walking toward the bed. "Many believed you had given your life to channel that grace. The High Cathedral has been in a state of prayer since you were brought through our gates."

  Lucien’s eyes widened with shock. What the hell was he talking about?

  Father Julius, seeing genuine confusion on the boy's face, softened his expression. "I do not know the full truth," he said quietly. "But the rumors have spread like wildfire—that you summoned our beloved Goddess from the heavens beyond to stop the curse."

  "Where the hell did those rumors come from?" Lucien rasped, his mind reeling.

  "That night," Julius said, his voice dropping into a tone of pure devotion, "night turned to day. Even here, from far away, we felt the warm light of our Goddess. We have never felt her presence more clearly than on that day." He had a look of absolute piety on his face, as if he were staring at a miracle. "To think that your arrival would cause such a miracle to happen."

  Lucien contemplated the priest's words for a moment, trying to ignore the throbbing in his skull. "What did you see?" he asked.

  "I saw nothing with my eyes," Father Julius admitted. "I only saw that massive pillar of light reaching for the stars and felt her presence. It was enough."

  "Then why call me a 'Holy Child'?"

  "Their Excellencies said that you were the reason for her arrival. That without you, the light would never have descended."

  So the Paladins confirmed it, Lucien realized. He needed them here. He needed to know exactly what they told the Church.

  Like clockwork, the heavy doors swung open. It wasn't just one, but both of the Paladins who had stood in that crater. Dame Seraphine and Sir Valerius entered, their presence instantly commanding the room and pushing back the quiet atmosphere Father Julius had established.

  "You may leave," Dame Seraphine told Father Julius, her voice leaving no room for argument. "We have something to discuss in private."

  She gestured toward the door. The priest didn't hesitate; he stood, offered a deep, respectful bow to both the Paladins and Lucien, and stepped out, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind him.

  The silence in the room stretched thin, punctuated only by the distant chime of cathedral bells. Seraphine and Valerius loomed over the bed, no longer the battered warriors of the crater. They wore heavy silk robes of pristine white, embroidered with the symbol of the Eternal Dawn: a perfect circle split by a piercing vertical ray of light, resting upon a subtle horizon arc.

  "Three months," Valerius broke the silence, his voice a low growl. "We thought you were never coming back, kid. Or whatever you are." He studied Lucien with a look that was no longer just suspicious, but deeply curious.

  Dame Seraphine sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of her presence pressing into the furs. "How did you do it?" she asked softly.

  "Do what?" Lucien replied, his voice still raspy.

  "How did you summon our Goddess?"

  Lucien felt a headache forming that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. This again. He thought back to the image behind the veil—the woman in the garden. Was she real? Or just a lingering memory of the Sovereign?

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Lucien lied, keeping his face neutral.

  "That day," Seraphine said, her eyes glazing over with reminiscence. "We have never felt her presence so clearly."

  She began to explain the intricacies of the Church’s faith. For those within the order, the process of "Engraving" was a sacred ritual using specialized tools to etch the spiritual light of the Goddess into their soul. At the lower levels, the light was simple, a mere tool for power. But upon reaching the 6th Vein—the Vein of Resonance—the harmony between the soul and the engraving would finally allow a believer to feel a true connection to the Goddess.

  "But that day," Valerius piped in, his usual brashness replaced by a strange solemnity, "everyone felt it. Not just those of the 6th Vein. Thousands reported a presence as hot as the sun, yet not painful. It was warm. Safe."

  "We have never felt the connection so powerful," Seraphine added, her voice trembling slightly. "I think... we even heard her voice. And she called you 'My Child'."

  Lucien raised an eyebrow. He did recall the words. My child. It had sounded like a question, a reach across the void. But he knew his own history. His parents in this life were lechers and fools; in his previous life, he’d had no ties to the Church. There was no way that being was his mother.

  The only logical conclusion was that the Hollow Sovereign—the original warrior—was her child. Was that guy a fallen god? A prince of the heavens? The questions piled up, but Lucien knew he wouldn't get answers from these two. Or from anyone. What he needed to do now was to fix this perception of being the "Holy Child" before the Church decided to lock him in a golden cage forever.

  Lucien watched them closely, measuring the tension in the room. If they hadn't seen the Garden, the giant woman, the boy with the symbol, or the celestial court, then the "vision" had been exclusive to him—or perhaps a side effect of his Equilibrium syncing with the Sovereign’s final moments.

  "I remember the light," Lucien said, choosing his words carefully. "And I remember the warmth. But me being her child is impossible. My lineage is well-documented." He paused, letting the silence hang before offering them an out. "Maybe it was the mother being freed from the curse. Maybe she finally found her voice at the end."

  Both Paladins looked at each other and nodded slowly. The explanation was grounded, almost logical. It gave them a way to process the impossible without having to rewrite their entire theology around a thirteen-year-old boy.

  "It is true," Seraphine murmured, though her hand remained tightened on the silk of her robe. "The relief of a soul finally unburdened by such darkness could produce a cry that echoes through the spirit."

  "But," Valerius added, his voice regaining its gruff edge, "the presence of the Goddess... that cannot be faked. “ He inched in closer.

  Lucien noted the change in tone. They were moving from worship to investigation. He needed to keep them in that sweet spot—respectful enough to give him space, but not so obsessed that they’d never let him leave. He had saved them from a curse, but now he had to navigate the Church's politics as carefully as he had the battlefield.

  He had rewritten history and diverted a tragedy that should have crippled the high echelons of the faith. But as he looked at the heavy, silver-trimmed doors and the pious luxury surrounding him, he realized he had traded a nightmare for a golden cage. Between the suspicious Paladins and the looming memory of that mysterious goddess, the road ahead looked exhausting.

  Lucien couldn't help but retreat into his default state of mind.

  What a drag.