UNKNOWN INTERFERENCE DETECTEDSTW kernel: degraded — system prompts temporarily disabled
Countdown Extended time: Error Unknown
Derek woke to the sound of soft murmurs, the scent of lavender filling the air. His eyes fluttered open, only to be met by a blurry vision of ornate tapestries and marble floors. His first instinct was to sit up and check his surroundings, but as he did, a sharp dizziness hit him, and he had to steady himself against the unfamiliar surroundings. Where was he? The room was grand, with high ceilings and flickering candlelight. The last thing Derek remembered was being back home, in his familiar world, after everything he had gone through—the curse, the transformation, and the darkness he had barely escaped. But now, he was... somewhere else. "You're awake," a soft voice called. Derek looked up to see a woman dressed in flowing robes, her face gentle yet strangely serene. "Where am I?" Derek's voice was hoarse, his mind racing. This wasn't just a dream, was it? The woman smiled, though there was something bittersweet in her expression. "You're in the Kingdom of Ameloria. You were summoned here to be the Saintess." Saintess? Derek blinked, trying to grasp the words. The last thing he remembered was a feeling of finality—of peace after surviving his transformation. Yet now, he had been pulled into something entirely new. "Saintess?" he muttered, shaking his head. "I think you have the wrong person. I'm... I'm not who you think I am." The woman's smile softened as if she had expected his confusion. "It's okay. The memories will come back soon. For now, rest. We'll explain everything." But Derek felt an unease settle over him. The Saintess—was this another role he had been given, another curse? Had he really survived the villainess fate, only to be thrust into another world to play a new part? The same question repeated in his mind: Why me?
Days passed in a blur as Derek was led through the kingdom, given robes to wear, and shown a place of worship within a grand temple. He was told he had been summoned as the Saintess—a savior chosen to protect the kingdom from an impending catastrophe. Yet, nothing about the situation seemed right. Derek had no memory of being this so-called Saintess. He had no magical powers, no divine gift—nothing that could make him fit the role they had given him. As he was led to a lavish chamber, his only thought was of his family back home. Had they been affected by this strange turn of events? Had the otherworldly forces that controlled his life moved on to someone else, leaving them untouched? His thoughts were interrupted when a soft voice called out to him. "Saintess, it's time to meet the High Priestess," the attendant said, her voice trembling. "The High Priestess will explain the magic you now possess. She will help you understand your mission." Derek followed her, but something gnawed at his chest. He couldn't shake the feeling that whatever this power was, it wasn't his. He didn't belong here, not as a Saintess. He had only just managed to survive his past life. He couldn't possibly endure another role—especially one that could bind him to another destiny he didn't choose. The High Priestess, a regal woman with piercing eyes, greeted him warmly but with an air of authority. "Ah, the Saintess has finally arrived." Derek felt uneasy as the priestess approached him, placing a soft hand over his chest. "This is where your powers lie, Saintess," she explained, "in your heart. You have the ability to heal, to bring light, and to shield others from harm. Your powers are drawn from the gods themselves. But there is a price to pay. The magic you wield comes at a cost—the more you use it, the more your life force is drained." Derek recoiled. "So, it's like a curse?" He couldn't help but ask, his mind racing back to his time as the villainess, where everything had a price, a consequence. "Not a curse," the High Priestess corrected. "But a duty. Your powers are tied to the kingdom's survival. And, more importantly, to your own fate. You have four months to save this world, or everything will collapse. It is not unlike the trials you've endured before, Saintess. You must survive this test if you are to protect what remains."
With every passing day, Derek's powers grew stronger. He had no choice but to use them, as the kingdom faced threats from creatures born of darkness—monsters that attacked the outer borders, and magical forces bent on destroying the realm. As the Saintess, Derek was expected to confront these enemies with strength and purity. And while he tried to stay true to the values of love and compassion he once held, every use of his magic drained him further. The people around him praised him, looked up to him, but all Derek could think about was the fact that, like before, his survival was not guaranteed. The weight of the title "Saintess" settled heavily on his shoulders. With each passing battle, he felt his life force dwindling. He knew the price he was paying for every act of kindness, every healing spell, and every time he protected those he cared for. The clock wasn't ticking in months anymore—it was ticking in hours. The hardest part wasn't the physical toll. It was the emotional distance he felt growing between himself and the people around him. He couldn't afford to let anyone get too close. If they did, they would become part of the sacrifice—because he knew, deep down, the only way to survive this world was to protect it at the cost of himself.
One quiet evening, after another battle, Derek found himself on the balcony of the temple, staring at the stars. The air was cool, and the night sky was far too clear, far too peaceful for what he was enduring. "You're troubled, Saintess," a voice interrupted his solitude. He turned to see the High Priestess standing behind him, her eyes filled with understanding. "It's not easy, is it?" she asked softly. Derek shook his head. "I don't belong here. I never did. I can't do this again, I can't keep pretending that I'm someone else, that I'm some savior. I just want to go home." The High Priestess walked closer, her gaze sympathetic. "You were brought here for a reason, Saintess. You've already proven your strength, not just in magic, but in spirit. You may feel like a stranger to this world, but you are the one who will save it. That is your fate now. And it is a fate you can choose to embrace or fight against." Derek felt the weight of her words, the truth in them. This was his trial, his final test—just as his previous life had been a test of survival. But in this world, he was given a second chance. "Whatever happens," the High Priestess said, "remember this: the only way to win is to survive."
The days went on, each more difficult than the last. Derek fought harder than ever, using his powers to protect the people of Ameloria, to shield the innocent, and to battle the forces of darkness. He didn't know if he could survive this again, but he couldn't give up. He had learned the greatest lesson of all: survival wasn't about defeating the world around him. It was about enduring, even when everything seemed impossible. As the days passed and the battle raged on, Derek's resolve strengthened. This time, he wouldn't let the darkness consume him. No matter the cost, he would survive. And in doing so, he would protect those he loved—just as he had before. The clock was ticking. But Derek knew now: survival was the only way to win. And he would do whatever it took to survive.
The temple bells chimed ninth hour when the sky itself seemed to mispronounce the night.
A crackle—like parchment tearing under water—ran through Derek's bones. Cold light bled across the balcony stones and wrote words in the air that only he seemed to see.
UNKNOWN INTERFERENCE DETECTED STW kernel: degraded — system prompts temporarily disabled Countdown Extended time: Error — Unknown
He blinked hard. The words hung a heartbeat longer, then smudged into starlight.
"Saintess?" The High Priestess had not moved, but something in her posture shifted—as if a draft had passed through her too. "What do you see?"
"Static," he said, throat dry. "And a clock that just… glitched."
Her eyes thinned, discerning, but she did not ask him to explain the unexplainable. "Then we assume two truths at once: time has lengthened, and time has lied." She folded her hands. "Both are deadly if trusted."
They returned to the inner sanctum where lamplight pressed against frescoes of older Saintesses. An attendant—slender, steady-eyed—brought tea with ginger and a tremor she tried to hide.
"What is your name?" Derek asked gently.
"Elyna, Saintess." She straightened at being seen.
"Stay with me, Elyna." He needed anchors—names, faces, small honest things—to fight the vast, dishonest ones.
The outer wards screamed at dawn.
By the river gate, a creature of stitched shadow—witherwight, the guards muttered—broke through the palisade and raked its fingers across the stones. Frost bloomed where it touched. Soldiers faltered; a child's cry cut the morning like broken glass.
Derek moved before he thought. He took the steps two at a time, the High Priestess at his shoulder, Elyna three strides behind, clutching a satchel of bandages.
There are ways to heal that are just stitches and a prayer. This was not that.
He found the child, a boy no older than seven, breath hitching, blood wetting the scarf at his side. Derek knelt, aware of the wight rearing at the edge of his vision, aware of the guards bracing for a charge, aware of the clock he could no longer trust.
"Look at me," he said to the boy. "What's your name?"
"Toma."
"I'm Derek," he said, and for the first time he did not say Saintess. He set his palm over the wound and reached for a light he feared, loved, and owed too much.
It answered—flood and wire, warmth with edges. Pain climbed his arm like winter ivy and wrapped his ribs. He pulled anyway, threading flesh to flesh. When the wound knit, the wight shrieked—something about mercy offended its making—and lunged.
The High Priestess lifted her staff. Sigils flared, pushing the creature back into a ring of hammered silver that hadn't been there a breath ago. She didn't look away from Derek. "Breathe."
He did. The world steadied. Toma's eyes found him and widened. "You're crying."
Derek touched his cheek and felt the heat there. Not tears—blood, thin as ink. He smiled anyway. "Happens when I fix things."
The wight slammed the silver ring and fractured into grit that blew away like ash at tide. When it was quiet, Derek stood and swayed. Elyna caught his elbow with small, unshakable hands.
The clock in his skull ticked twice—then sputtered, like a candle that refuses to die.
LIFE DRAIN: 12% OFFSET: +?% (interference) STATUS: Unstable
He almost laughed. "Unstable," he repeated under his breath. "Join the club."
By noon the city had a new rumor: the Saintess bled to heal and smiled anyway. Derek would have preferred a quieter reputation, but he'd take what he could not stop.
In the scriptorium, where dust and sunlight negotiated over shelves, the High Priestess introduced a man wrapped in a scholar's humility and a heretic's grin.
"This is Archivist Nox," she said. "He reads what we forbid."
Nox bowed in a way that mocked bowing. "And what you lose."
Derek managed something like a nod. "Do you know what 'STW kernel' is?"
Nox's grin went thin. "Saintess Timer Window. Old temple notation for the covenant-clock bound to your office. In theory, the gods anchor it. In practice…" He tapped a stack of vellum. "In practice, every third Saintess reports anomalies. Most die arguing with them."
"And the interference?"
"That's new." He slid a page forward—an illuminated diagram of a tree that was also a machine, roots braided through city stones. Tiny figures pruned branches with knives that were also quills. "This appears in outlaw texts. 'The Gardener.' Something that edits fate to stabilize the world. When plagues run too hot or tyrants grow too tall, it trims."
"Prunes," Derek said, the word sour.
"Cuts, files, sometimes grafts. Your glitch reads like a hand halfway to your branch, then jerked back."
"By whom?"
Nox shrugged. "By you, perhaps. Or by the city. Or by a fight between two parts of the same god."
The High Priestess frowned. "Speak carefully."
"I did," Nox said serenely. "You just don't like the grammar."
Derek rubbed his temple. "If the system trims the dangerous, how do I live without pretending to be small?"
Nox's eyes lit. "Excellent question. You make yourself useful to the stability it wants more than it wants you dead. You become a keystone, not a branch."
"How?"
"Bind the ward to the people instead of the throne," Nox said, almost joyous. "If the wall's heartbeat is the city's breath, pruning you risks collapse. Even gardeners hate sweeping."
The High Priestess stared at the outlaw scholar for a long, measureless moment, then inclined her head, just slightly. "Blasphemy that builds keeps."