After the butler led them through the quiet halls, he showed them to their chambers. Leo and Elna were assigned one room together, while Arthur and Briva were given another. Luciana however, accepted a room for herself. The journey had drained them, and everyone was eager to rest. Elna collapsed into sleep almost immediately, but Leo stayed awake, unsettled. He sank into his domain to study, trying to quiet his thoughts.
When at last he closed his eyes, a sound disturbed him—a faint rush of air pressing against the balcony door.
Assuming the latch hadn't caught, Leo got up. He pulled back the curtains and peered outside. The night was wrong. The air felt thick, pressing against his skin, and the sky held no stars. The moon hung low, glowing with a crimson hue that bled across the horizon. The sight was disturbingly familiar, a memory he had hoped never to relive.
Cautiously, he stepped onto the balcony, his body instinctively wrapping itself in the power of his domain. Cold stone met his bare feet, and as he reached the railing, pain ripped through him like claws sinking into his flesh.
"You again?" Leo hissed through clenched teeth. He knew that presence—the beast God.
A laugh, jagged and cruel, echoed around him.
Leo tried to focus, to anchor himself within his domain, but the power slipped away like sand between his fingers. No matter how he fought, he couldn't grasp it. His protection was gone.
The pain deepened. His skin bulged in unnatural shapes, muscles swelling unevenly, as though something inside was clawing its way out. His arms bent at the wrong angles, bones straining under the pressure. His vision blurred, edges of the sky glowing with a sickly red haze. His chest heaved, and every breath came ragged, as if his lungs were turning against him.
He was changing, becoming something twisted, something not human. Corruption was eating through him, warping his body into the beast's image.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the torment broke. The pressure vanished, his limbs snapping back into place. He staggered forward, drenched in sweat, his hands trembling.
The balcony had changed. Ivy coiled over the stone, spreading like veins. Flowers opened across the vines in rapid, unnatural bloom, filling the air with a faint, sweet scent that didn't belong.
A man appeared beside him, calm and composed, as if he had always been there. He gazed up at the crimson moon with steady blue eyes. His long black hair fell to his shoulders, and his beard framed a face striking enough to be called beautiful.
"Begone, beast. You have no place here," the man said, his voice firm and commanding.
The laugh faded. The moon's color drained back to silver. The corruption inside Leo fled with it, leaving his body whole again.
Leo forced himself upright, still shaking. "You must be Mr. Osvald Hemingsson."
Osvald nodded once. "I don't know what you did to provoke such a creature, but if you don't find a way to shield yourself, you won't survive. I've placed a barrier around your mind, but it won't last forever."
"Thank you," Leo said, though suspicion edged his tone. "How are you even here? And what did you mean by 'creature'? That thing is a God, isn't it?"
"I entered through the dream world," Osvald explained. "A place druids can walk, where I reached you. As for that beast—" his gaze sharpened, "—we'll speak more when you wake. For now, let your body rest."
The balcony dissolved. The moon faded. The vines, the flowers, even the air unraveled until Leo was swallowed by an ordinary dream.
…
In Flesa City, Liam was already setting his plan in motion. To make it possible, he still needed two things: a spell capable of leveling a place in one strike, and complete control over his summon. The problem was that he was a conjurer. Conjurers usually relied on their creatures to attack. That meant either finding a beast capable of fire magic—or something equally destructive—or turning to pure magic.
Summoned creatures were limited in number, and each demanded a crushing amount of mana. Pure magic, offered more possibilities. After weeks buried in the family mansion's vast library, Liam finally found something close. Mana Detonation. The spell condensed raw mana into a sphere before rupturing it, triggering a chain-reaction explosion. The blast didn't burn—it tore.
He was still studying its intricacies when the creak of a door broke the silence. His father's butler stepped inside and bowed.
"Sir, my lord is waiting for you in his office."
Liam closed the book, nodded, and rose. "Let's go."
He followed the butler through the long hallways, past oil paintings of ancestors and tall windows where the evening sun bled red through the glass. After knocking, they entered Lord Hans's office.
"Father, you wanted to see me?" Liam bowed.
Lord Hans pushed away from his desk and stood. "Liam, come with me."
"Where?" Liam asked, falling into step behind him.
"It's time for you to choose an item of power from our family storage."
"Item of power?" Liam frowned. "We have such things?"
"Of course we do," Hans said without slowing his stride. "Every noble house keeps them."
"Then why give one to me?"
"You are an important part of this family," Lord Hans replied. His voice carried the weight of duty rather than warmth. "It's time you carried one."
Liam's lips twitched with a smile he dared not show. This could help his plan more than his father realized.
They descended into the mansion's basement, their steps echoing against stone walls lit by flickering torches. The air grew colder with each turn, the silence broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere deep in the corridors. Dust clung to the edges of carved reliefs along the walls.
At the end of a narrow passage stood a massive double iron door. Its surface was covered in intricate markings and shifting gears, like a machine that had been asleep for centuries. Liam could feel the faint hum of enchantments woven into the metal.
Lord Hans glanced at the butler, who had followed in silence until now. The man stepped forward and produced a heavy golden key from his pocket, its teeth shaped in odd patterns that almost looked alive.
Lord Hans withdrew his own key, blackened with age but gleaming faintly under the lantern light. Together, they slid the keys into separate locks. The moment both turned, gears screeched to life, grinding against one another as though waking from a long slumber. The door shuddered, then slowly began to open, exhaling a draft of stale, cold air from within.
When the doors open fully, Liam stepped in behind his father. A wave of cold air carried the faint metallic tang of magic long sealed away. The chamber within wasn't vast, but its presence was heavy, almost suffocating. It was circular, its stone walls carved with runes that glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. In the center of the room stood nothing, leaving the eye to drift toward eight raised platforms spaced evenly along the edges of the circular room. Upon each stood a single item, resting in quiet defiance of time.
Lord Hans gestured toward the far end. "Other than those three there—which are A-rank and above—you may choose from the remaining artifacts."
Liam blinked. The three items at the far end of the chamber weren't displayed like the others. A thick layer of magic veiled them, shimmering faintly like heat haze, making it impossible to see what they truly were. His eyes strained against the distortion, but the wards swallowed every detail, leaving only the suggestion of shape and presence.
"We have items above A-rank?" he asked, his voice lower than he intended.
"Of course we do," his father said, pride swelling in his voice. "Our house is old, and our vault runs deep."
Liam's attention fell on the first platform. A golden crown gleamed under the chamber's dim light, polished as though it had been waiting.
"The Crown of the Hollow Throne," the butler explained with practiced precision. "It grants its bearer absolute command over those who kneel or swear fealty. Words spoken under its influence become irresistible, shaping subordinates into unquestioning instruments. Armies will follow without hesitation. But," his tone sharpened slightly, "the crown feeds on willpower. The more the wearer commands, the less their own independence remains. Overuse may reduce them to little more than a puppet—enslaved by their own decrees, unable to make a single choice without compulsion."
Liam studied it, imagining the weight of such authority pressing down like chains. Not for him. He turned away.
On the second platform sat a mirror, no larger than a man's chest. Its obsidian frame seemed to drink the light around it, and the glass rippled faintly like liquid shadow disturbed by unseen fingers. Looking at it made the back of his neck prickle.
"Eclipse Mirror," the butler continued. "It shows the truth of anyone reflected—their desires, fears, hidden strengths, and intentions. Sometimes, even glimpses of futures yet unwritten. But beware—the mirror takes as much as it gives. Each reflection erodes the user's sense of self, bleeding fragments of others into their mind. Over time, the bearer becomes a patchwork of countless souls, their own identity swallowed in the tide."
Liam's stomach twisted. He stepped away quickly, refusing to linger under its hungry gaze.
The third platform held a weapon. A short, curved blade rested there, veins of ember glowing faintly along its dark steel. The hilt, shaped like the jaws of a snarling beast, looked ready to bite into the hand that dared claim it. Warmth radiated from it, almost a pulse, as though it breathed.
"Ashfang Dagger," said the butler. "Its wounds are not simple cuts. Each strike injects fiery corruption, spreading like poison through the victim. Wounds fester with magical rot, sometimes twisting flesh into abominations or burning them alive from the inside out. But the corruption does not spare the wielder. Each use stains their blood, binding fire and mutation to their body. Those who rely on it too often… become something no longer human."
Liam admired its vicious promise, but the curse was too steep. He forced himself to move on.
The fourth platform bore an unassuming lantern. Rust mottled its iron frame, its cracked glass barely containing a faint greenish flame. Wisps of mist leaked from the fissures, curling like fingers that sought to escape.
"The Lantern of the Forsaken Path," the butler explained. "It reveals what others cannot see—hidden doors, forgotten trails, veiled enchantments. It can guide its wielder to treasures, knowledge, or paths even the Gods might wish concealed. But each step revealed burns away a piece of the user's soul, leaving fragments behind in the light. Use it too often, and the lantern will claim them entirely—trapping their spirit to wander within as a ghostly guide for whoever dares hold it next."
Liam stared at the weak, flickering glow. A prisoner disguised as a guide. Useless to him. He turned his eyes toward the remaining artifacts.
Until now, every item had been powerful but useless to him. That left only the final platform.
Upon it rested a gauntlet of blackened iron, heavy and brutal in its design. Its surface was cracked as if fire had tried to tear its way out and failed, leaving jagged fissures glowing bright orange, like molten rock caged in steel. Every so often, a flicker of flame escaped its fingertips, licking the air before fading. The air around it wavered with heat, and even from a few steps away, Liam could feel its smoldering hunger.
The butler's voice carried a subtle weight of reverence—and warning. "Volcryst Gauntlet. The bearer can summon and hurl explosive fireballs at will, or ignite their fists with concussive force strong enough to shatter stone. Its fire can vaporize objects, reduce enemies to ash, and trigger chained detonations in the environment. But each use burns the wearer's blood from within, blackening the veins and making them brittle. Overuse risks igniting the body itself, until the bearer bleeds fire uncontrollably… or explodes from the inside out. The stronger the blast, the greater the cost."
Liam's pulse quickened as he studied it. The gauntlet radiated raw destruction—the very thing he had been seeking. It was almost too perfect, as if fate itself had placed it here for him. And with his new vampire like abilities, he was confident he could offset much of its curse.
"I choose this," Liam said firmly, his voice carrying no hesitation.
But as the flames flickered across the gauntlet's cracks, he couldn't shake a gnawing thought. Perfect or not, coincidences rarely existed in matters of power. At the upcoming gathering, he would ask Mr. Arthur to divine the item, to pierce the veil of destiny. He needed to know whether he had chosen freely—or whether some hidden hand was guiding his path.