Ren sat hunched over the three Scriptures, their presence pressing down like tombstones. The air in the Throne Room was still, almost respectful. Not peaceful, not gentle. It was the quiet that followed judgment.
"I've already done the math," he muttered. "Now it's just the screaming part"
"Let's look at it again just to be sure"
His eyes settled on the Scripture of the Hollow Grave. The cover was skin. The clasps were bone. Something like smoke or rot curled gently from the pages. Not strong enough to be called a scent. Just a suggestion. A memory of decay.
"You're the simplest, aren't you? Death doesn't lie. It just empties."
He didn't smile. The words were more bitter than resigned. He tapped one finger against his knee.
"Dig the grave. Swallow the name. Whisper for forty-eight hours... until something whispers back."
He exhaled through his nose, slow and thin.
"I don't even need to pretend. Just give up."
His hand hovered above the Scripture. Not trembling. Just still.
"You would make it easy. Let me stop feeling. Stop hoping."
Then, without warning, his fingers jerked away from the book. Like it had burned him.
"But that's the trick, isn't it? You don't kill me. You preserve me. Just long enough to make me useful."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned.
The Scripture of Fractured Truth sat untouched beside the others. The glass cover reflected the low ambient light. Cracked, but intact. Its title flickered between letters, symbols, and empty space. Words tried to exist there, but none held for long.
"You scare me the most," Ren whispered.
"Not because of the pain. Not even the face thing."
He took a breath.
"But because I know I could do it."
The glass shimmered. His reflection stared back at him. No— not just one. A dozen versions of himself blinked back. Laughing. Crying. Smirking. Screaming. Indifferent.
"Pick a lie. Any lie. Pretend hard enough... and I will become it."
His voice cracked. Just slightly. Enough to notice.
"I've done that before. Everyone does. But this time the lie won't stop."
He clenched his jaw. Silence followed. Then:
"And what happens if the lie is something I want to be true?"
No answer. Not from the glass. Not from the room.
His eyes finally landed on the last Scripture.
Smooth. Elegant. Laced with golden thread and scholarly precision. No rot. No madness. No flickering lies.
"You're the polite one," he said softly.
"All riddles and candlelight. But you demand more than either of them."
He reached out, tapped the front with two fingers.
"Blindness. Silence. Thirty days alone with the truth that I am... ignorant."
A chuckle slipped out. Cold and thin.
"You'd think after 110 years of suffering, I'd be past pride."
Then, bitterly:
"But I'm not. Not really. I still want to understand."
He leaned back, voice rising a little.
"One book wants to erase me."
"One wants me to know my place."
"And one wants to remake me into someone else."
He spread his arms wide, gesturing to no one. An invisible jury of gods and ghosts.
"What a menu. Shall I be a corpse, a reflection, or a question?"
Silence greeted him again. Thick. Waiting.
Ren lowered his arms and crouched beside the books, hands resting on his knees. He wasn't ready to choose. Not yet. But the time was close. Too close.
"Let's try this again. No emotion. Just facts."
He reached for the Scripture of the Hollow Grave.
And the next part begins.
Ren opened the Scripture of the Hollow Grave.
The first page had no blood, no sigil, no madness. Just sharp, black lettering etched into skin that didn't quite stop breathing.
Mystic 1st Stage: Undertaker
"Delays a soul from escaping. Prepares corpses for future necromancy. Can sense death and bind enemies by increasing their spiritual weight."
Ren blinked.
"Okay. That's… straightforward. Death-themed logistics."
He turned the page, scanning the next few entries. They only listed titles.
Mystic 2nd Stage: Embalmer
Mystic 3rd Stage: Forensic Technician
Mystic 4th Stage: Medical Examiner
Mystic Final Stage: Necromancer
He let out a dry breath.
"Clear chain of command. Field mortician to battlefield puppeteer."
He flipped back to the first page.
"So, Rank 12 lets me sense when something's about to die, delay the soul from escaping, and weigh enemies down with death energy. It's like being a spiritual prison warden."
He scratched his chin.
"Not a frontline fighter, but damn good support. Soul control, corpse prep, battlefield cleanup. Can't kill directly, but makes everyone else more killable."
He shut the book gently.
"Clean. Functional. Efficient. Honestly, it's terrifying how tempting that is."
He stared at the bone clasps again.
"I wouldn't need people. Just the dead."
He didn't reach for it again. Not yet.
Instead, he grabbed the second Scripture — the one with the polished, smooth cover and golden bindings. The Scripture of Knowledge.
He opened it.
Mystic 1st Stage: Acolyte
"Gain one element. Firebolt. Ice Spike. Lightning Dart. Small-scale elemental projectiles. Range: 10–20 meters. Basic rune traps. Elemental analysis."
He paused.
"That's it? That's the start? This is how your 'scholars' begin?"
He squinted, then read the mutation: Glyph-Etched Pupils — eyes transformed to read runes and elemental structures in matter.
"Cool. A little gross. But cool."
He flipped to the next titles.
Mystic 2nd Stage: Senior Researcher
Mystic 3rd Stage: Elemental Arcanist
Mystic 4th Stage: Alchemist
Mystic Final Stage: Elemental Wizard
He stared at the page a moment longer.
"...Are you sure you're the Scripture of Knowledge?" he asked slowly. "Why are you so violent?"
He rubbed his face and took a deep breath.
"So let me get this straight."
He gestured toward the air like he was explaining it to someone else.
"In this world, a scholar isn't someone who reads in a library. No. A scholar is a goddamn combat wizard who throws lightning, blows up doorways, and levels forests because they understand 'the shape of heat.'"
He flipped back and forth between pages, just to make sure he hadn't missed anything.
He hadn't.
"Is this normal here?" he asked the empty space. "Is this just what education means now? Do you guys hand out fireballs with diplomas?"
He stood up, paced once, then sat back down hard.
"I came here thinking I might find a path that made sense. Something logical. Something intellectual. But no. Turns out knowing things means turning physics into artillery."
He flipped the book closed. A bit more forcefully than he meant to.
"Fast power ramp-up. Very combat-heavy. Probably exhausting."
Finally, he reached for the last one.
The Scripture of Fractured Truth.
The glass flexed as he touched it, almost breathing under his fingers.
He opened it.
Mystic 1st Stage: Psychologist
"Reads mental strain. Detects lies. Reflects emotional states back at target. Can project a false emotional calm a fake peace that temporarily becomes real."
He narrowed his eyes.
"Great. Emotional warfare. Just what I needed."
He read further.
"Creates believable sensory lies. Visual, auditory, tactile. Can implant a false belief for thirty seconds. Can appear in multiple locations through perception echoes. Detects cracks in a person's worldview and exploits them."
He didn't laugh, but something in his throat twitched.
"Yep. That's unhinged."
He turned the page. It didn't offer details, only names.
Mystic 2nd Stage: Cognitive Architect
Mystic 3rd Stage: Mentalist
Mystic 4th Stage: Narrative Dissector
Mystic Final Stage: High-Functioning Sociopath
Ren stared at the last title for a solid five seconds.
"I understand the other two," he muttered, "but what the hell is High-Functioning Sociopath?"
He looked back at the beginning again. Three books. Three paths.
"So…"
"Hollow Grave gives me soul and corpse control. Long setup, medium risk, high payoff. Reliable if I'm the last man standing."
"Knowledge gives me elemental firepower. Most destructive. Scales fast. Obvious risk of burnout."
"Fractured Truth gives me manipulation and psychological pressure. Slower growth. Hard to counter once I know how people think."
He leaned forward, voice low and focused.
"One hits the body."
"One hits the battlefield."
"One hits the mind."
He held his breath for a moment.
"I don't know how long I'll survive at just Mystic 1st Stage."
He looked at his hands. Pale. Clean. Temporary.
"I need something that keeps me alive now. But I also need something that gives me control later."
His eyes drifted again toward the Hollow Grave.
"You make sense," he whispered.
He placed one hand on the cover. Cold. Like marble left out too long.
"Death is everywhere. Corpses are always available. Soul energy doesn't run out. Your power doesn't rely on belief or illusion. Just death."
"And there's plenty of that."
He traced one bone clasp.
"I wouldn't need people. Wouldn't need trust. Just tools. Just resources. Flesh and spirit."
He pulled it closer.
"I could be safe. Untouchable. The dead don't betray you."
He paused.
"…I could control the battlefield without lifting a hand."
He almost opened it again.
Almost.
But something tugged inside his mind. A tight, dry itch. Not fear. Not doubt.
Instinct.
He froze.
Then his hand jerked back again.
"You're too perfect," he said aloud.
His voice felt tight.
"Too smooth. Too clean a path."
He stared down like the book had grown teeth.
"The Vow demands silence. Isolation. Submission to death."
"But death is broken in this world. The Law is shattered. The throne is empty."
He stood slowly.
"So I should be safe ,Right?"
No answer.
Just stillness.
Ren narrowed his eyes.
"I'm not doing it. Not yet. Not until I know who's listening."
He turned his back on the Hollow Grave. Walked away.
Or so he thought.
Until he realized he was sitting again. Fingers brushing the clasp. The Scripture pulled close.
Exactly where it had been before.
And the next part begins.
Ren didn't remember sitting back down.
He didn't remember dragging the Scripture closer again.
But there it was.
The bone clasps under his fingertips. The skin-bound cover cold as ever. Familiar. Too familiar.
"I said no" he muttered
But the words came out flat. Detached. Like someone else was speaking through him.
He blinked. His hand was already moving not on command.
"No"
The whisper barely escaped his lips.
His other hand moved. Fast. Reflexive.
The bone dagger slipped free of his belt in a clean, silent motion.
He didn't think. Didn't hesitate.
He stabbed straight through his own palm.
The pain was immediate.
White-hot.
It roared through his arm and burst behind his eyes like a flare.
The left hand recoiled violently, satchel falling back to the ground. Blood sprayed across the stone.
The spell — whatever had taken hold — shattered like cheap glass.
Ren fell backwards, breathing ragged, eyes wide, body heaving.
The dagger clattered beside him.
His hand pulsed, leaking blood in thick drips that pooled beneath him.
He stared at the ceiling of the temple, jaw clenched, sweat running cold down his face.
"That wasn't me"
Silence.
The Scripture of the Hollow Grave sat still.
Closed again.
Exactly as he remembered leaving it.
Ren didn't speak for a long time.
He just sat there, back against the cold stone, hand ruined, trying to slow his heart.
The pain helped. It grounded him. Reminded him he was still in control.
Eventually, he exhaled.
"What the hell was that"
The air didn't answer.
He looked at the Scripture of the Hollow Grave again. No movement. No shift.
But it felt wrong now.
Not evil. Not cursed.
Just wrong.
Like it had already tried to claim him once and was waiting for another chance.
He glared at it.
"I said no"
His voice cracked.
Then steadied.
"I meant it"
He forced himself to stand, one hand pressed to the wall, the other clenched into a shaking, bleeding fist.
"Whatever that was… I'm done"
He turned around. Walked to the center of the room. Then turned back.
"Hard pass. You don't get to crawl into my head"
He grabbed the Scripture of the Hollow Grave and threw it. Hard.
It struck the far wall with a dull, wet thud. Pages flared open for a second before settling face down.
Then he raised his middle finger at it.
A long, deliberate gesture.
"Eat rot"
No response.
No echo.
Ren stood there, chest rising and falling.
Then turned to the other two Scriptures.
One of illusions. One of destruction.
He shook out his hand, flinching from the fresh pulse of pain, then pressed a cloth around the wound.
He needed time.
But time wasn't something he had much of.
And now, one of the doors the Scripture of the Hollow Grave was closed.
Not by choice.
But by necessity.