Sunny wasn't sure what to do.
On one hand, he could practically feel [Blood Weave] salivating at the sight of the trinkets atop the pedestal. On the other hand, every single neuron in his brain was screaming, 'Don't eat random stuff you find in an abandoned temple' at him.
And somehow, [Blood Weave] was winning.
"Am I crazy?" he muttered to himself.
He shook his head and did his best to ignore the amused stares from his shadows and Saint.
Deciding to deal with them later, he grabbed the book and opened it, hoping it would explain what the objects on the pedestal were and why [Blood Weave] was so desperate to have him consume them.
The book itself was... unsettling. The cover was cracked and faded, its surface covered in symbols that seemed to shift when stared at for too long, as though alive. The pages were unlike anything he had ever seen—old, yellowed, and not just from age. The markings twisted and turned in impossible ways, as if written by something that didn't follow the rules of language at all.
And they were completely undecipherable.
The markings resembled nothing akin to the runic languages he had learned from Teacher Julius, and neither did the Spell seem capable—or willing—to translate them.
Then another pang of hunger from [Blood Weave] hit him, and inspiration surged. He shifted his sight, and suddenly, the book transformed under his hands. The impossible shapes and runes that had made no sense before now seemed legible. But not in the way most languages were readable.
If someone asked him what language it was, he couldn't answer. It was like every language he knew and none of them at once. As if it were so ancient and archaic that all other languages had drawn inspiration from it.
And somehow, he could understand it perfectly—like he had used this language all his life. But despite understanding it, the meaning of the words eluded him, slipping away like water running through his fingers.
He flipped back to the first page, just to be sure, and found that he could understand it. But the second page? Nothing.
Greetings, my Epigone.
If you are reading this, it means the Fate I divined has already been lost and broken.
Who starts a message like that?! And what the Spell is an Epigone?!
You and that pesky Master of yours have ruined plans thousands of years in the making.
His blood ran cold.
The writer... the writer was speaking to him.
How? How could they know he would be here? How long had it been since this was written? And what did they know about her and the [Shadow Bond]?
I could regale you with tales of all that has been lost because of you two. Of sacrifices rendered pointless, of atrocities done for nothing, of blood, sweat, and tears now gone to waste.
I won't.
I did it for myself, and for no one else. Let historians spin their tales of heroism, or invent chilling stories about the monstrous acts I performed purely for my amusement.
I don't care. The only thing I cared about was breaking Fate, and you've already managed to do so. I could feel proud, if I wasn't so vexed that an amateur did what I couldn't.
But I must applaud you wholeheartedly.
Goosebumps crawled up Sunny's arms as he read on. The letters practically oozed with glee—deranged, bitter, and vindicated.
You, your Master, and the Blind Oracle have changed Fate.
This is a feat so monumental that even I can't find the words to describe it. Once again, I applaud you, my Epigone.
He was certain of it now—the writer was referring to him. The details —vague as they were— fit too well to be a coincidence.
A pity that you have most likely condemned all the realms in doing so.
Even if the world ends, be proud; there is no greater achievement than defying your own fate.
What you see before you are the other pieces of my lineage.
If there are six, ruin is unavoidable. If there are five, you might still have a chance.
He quickly checked the pedestal and breathed a sigh of relief upon noticing there were only five. Then, he shook his head at himself.
He didn't even know who the book belonged to, and he was already taking its word as truth. Wait... their lineage?!
Consume them all in one go. The pain will be the second-worst you've ever felt—if you haven't used the charm of my mask yet, do so, it should prove enlightening—and you'll be left unconscious for weeks. Might as well get it done in one go and save yourself the trouble, right?
The order in which you shall consume them is as follows: Eat the golden fruit, eat the black phalanx, break the jade figurine, trace with your fingers the 'a new beginning' part of the scroll, and finally, reflect yourself in the mirror fragment.
He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of reading this book.
You may ignore my instructions if you wish, but you won't survive otherwise.
Well, that was reassuring.
This is it for now. You may continue reading after attaining my lineage.
The page ended there, and, as before, the rest of the book was beyond his comprehension.
It left him in a dilemma. The entire situation was suspicious. Here he was, in a temple that had been abandoned for eons, in a land no one knew, and right under the nose of an Unholy Titan of all things.
Yet, in his moment of utmost despair, he found the remaining pieces of his lineage—meaning the mysterious writer could be no one other than Weaver—which would surely make him far more powerful. [Blood Weave] had already proven invaluable, and if the other pieces were even half as useful...
He couldn't ignore the fact that the book seemed to contain further instructions after consuming the lineage. Instructions that might lead to a way out—now that the Temple's Gateway had proven useless.
It felt almost tailor-made for his situation. A glimmer of hope after losing it all.
But he didn't like it. He'd met plenty of conmen, and this one smelled like the worst of them all.
On the other hand… what other option did he have?
He had no clue, no information, no hope.
Trust an ancient Daemon who, by their own admission, committed immense atrocities and didn't care as long as their objective was fulfilled? Or just ignore it all and leave the Temple behind, forgetting the priceless treasures inside?
"Why is it that every time I have a choice, it's between bad and worse?" he muttered bitterly.
He'd like to say he thought long and hard about it, but in the end, he knew exactly what he would do.
"Bad it is," he whispered with resentment.
He summoned the [Safebox of Greed] and the [Endless Spring], offering them to Saint. Thankfully, the bleeding of ruby dust had stopped. While not fully healed, she should be able to take care of him while he recovered from the lineage acquisition, however long it would take.
"There's food in the safebox, and if it runs out, you can harvest meat from the nightmare creatures outside. The bottle has unlimited water, so at least that's covered."
Saint accepted the memories with a resolute nod, her eyes silently vowing to take care of him as long as it took.
Unable to stop himself, he embraced her once more, thankful beyond words for her presence through everything.
Then, he looked at his shadows, all of whom were looking somberly at him, silently encouraging him to do it and come out stronger. He smiled at them and gave them a thumbs-up worthy of Happy, who looked moved by the action.
Serpent left the tattoo and settled himself beside the door, a silent vigil against any danger that could pose a risk to him.
Sunny patted Serpent affectionately and moved back toward the pedestal.
"Here goes nothing."
Following Weaver's instructions, he quickly consumed the Golden Fruit—it was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted—then swallowed the phalanx, smashed the jade figurine against the pedestal, traced the 'a new beginning' part of the scroll, and finally, angled the mirror fragment at himself.
He froze when, instead of seeing himself, he saw who he assumed to be Weaver.
For a moment, nothing happened—no pain, no sudden change, just stillness.
Then it hit him.
The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt, as if his entire being was being torn apart, piece by piece. His body reshaped in ways he couldn't understand, each shift sending waves of agony through his bones, his flesh, his soul.
First, his soul screamed as it grew and expanded, like it was too small to contain everything inside.
Then his bones shattered like dry wood, breaking and reforming in a cycle that seemed endless.
His skin burned, as if ants were crawling over him, their fire-like march spreading deeper, from his skin into his flesh, his organs, and further still.
A foreign sensation coiled around him, granting a power that was within reach but completely unusable—for now. How did he even know that? It eluded him in the haze of pain.
At last, his mind shattered, millions of thoughts ran simultaneously, endless fragments of consciousness flaking away before reforming. It felt like his mind was being pulled in every direction at once.
Through it all, a pain that was second only to staring at the tapestry of Fate ran through him, overtaking every other thought.
Unconsciousness came quickly, mercifully, saving him from the unbearable torment.
-------------------------------------------
Three weeks, six days, five hours, thirty-four minutes, and seven seconds later—his shadows had been keeping count—he woke up.
The pain had subsided, though its echoes lingered, making him shudder involuntarily at the memory of what he had endured. Fortunately, the echoes soon dissipated, leaving him free of it.
Sunny found himself tucked into a bed, carefully arranged by who he assumed to be Saint, who was sitting on a fancy-looking chair beside him, [Endless Spring] grasped in her hand, seemingly about to offer him water.
"Thank you, Saint," he whispered in a hoarse voice, his tone full of gratitude.
She nodded calmly at him, her eyes telling him that there was nothing to thank her for.
He smiled at her and tried to sit up, his body creaking in protest. It had been the first movement in weeks.
He felt... good, if he was being honest with himself.
The pain from old wounds that hadn't healed properly had vanished, as if they were nothing more than a bad nightmare he had already forgotten.
The hideous scars etched into his flesh had faded, growing faint and indistinct. Soon, there would be nothing but smooth skin where they once were. The changes didn't stop there; he felt lighter, as if a weight he hadn't even known he carried had been lifted, leaving him unburdened for the first time in ages.
His mind felt different—vaster, deeper, like a lake. He realized he was thinking about the changes in his body all at once, every thought clear and vivid as if he were dedicating his entire mind to it. It was dizzying, yet exhilarating.
And the best part? His right hand, which had lost half its fingers, was now growing them back. They were nothing more than stubs at the moment, but in a week or two, they'd be whole again.
It was as if he had been reborn in a new, better body—a body that should be able to withstand whatever challenges lay ahead.
He looked at his shadows, and in an unprecedented show of unity, they all seemed to be happy for him.
Serpent, still standing guard by the door, hissed in what he assumed was a congratulatory gesture.
Sunny smiled at them all, grateful to have them by his side.
Minutes later, having eaten and drunk, he grabbed the book again, eager to see what Weaver had to say next.
You are done.
Everything you could do has already been done. Now, be a good boy and stay right where you are.
In a few years, your Master will arrive to save you.
To keep you occupied during the wait, there are instructions about my own brand of sorcery further in the book, and some basic enchantments for you to practice. Everything else, you will have to figure out by yourself.
Follow what I have said, and you might have a chance yet.
Best of fortunes, my Epigone.
Just one last piece of advice: Become as famous as possible.
That was it.
That was all Weaver had to say. Further pages contained instructions on how to perform the sorcery known as 'Weaving', along with basic enchantments mentioned by Weaver.
An anger that dwarfed even the rage evoked by Wrath consumed him, painting the world red.
That's it?
Just give up?
Wait for someone else to save him?
BE A GOOD BOY?!
The fury built and built, but then, just as it had with Wrath weeks before, it burned itself out. Leaving nothing but bitter aceptance behind.
He had already given up, hadn't he? And Weaver had, in fact, given him an answer as to what to do.
Nothing.
Just wait for Nephis to save him.
Again.
He laughed bitterly.
-------------------------------------------
He was seated on the glass surface of the Gateway, the same fancy chair Saint had used in front of him, Sunny's fingers—completely restored now—moved quickly, flowing effortlessly through the motions as he practiced weaving. It was surprisingly relaxing, almost therapeutic.
His gaze caught the silver ring on the middle finger of his right hand, and his mind flashed back to its origins.
It was the [Ring of Sorrow], the reward for killing the Emotion Eater. He still felt like the description was mocking him, but its enchantments were undeniably powerful.
It had two: the first enhanced essence regeneration, and the second increased the regeneration based on the amount of sorrow the wearer felt. As of now, it provided him with more essence than he could even use. It was the only reason he could weave at all—his first attempts had been futile since the amount of essence required to use the technique would drain him within seconds.
But thanks to the ring? He could practice endlessly, weaving as much as he wanted.
As his fingers moved, his mind churned.
He could still hear it—a voice that sounded just like his own—calm and certain, telling him to stop. To just wait.
"Be a good boy and stay right where you are," Weaver seemed to whisper in his ear.
But how could they say that? How could they?
He had been fighting for so long. Almost a year and a half of struggling, of fearing for his life, spent battling enemies that wanted to tear him apart. Every step forward felt like dragging himself through a field of glass. Every ounce of strength he had pulled from somewhere deep inside, like he was emptying himself out just to keep moving. And now, after everything, after all the blood, sweat, and fear... Weaver wanted him to just sit down and wait for someone else to come?
He couldn't—wouldn't—just give up now. Not after everything he had been through. Not after all of it. How could he live with himself if he just... stopped?
But then there was that voice. That damned insidious voice, the one he had been trying to ignore. It had been whispering to him for as long as he could remember. Through every bad moment, through days of hunger, thirst, pain, loneliness, and so much more.
"Maybe they're right." The voice whispered sweetly.
"Maybe you've done everything you can." It continued softly.
"What if it's true? What if no matter how hard you try, you will never find a way out?" The traitorous voice finished almost placatingly.
The thought sat there like a stone in his stomach. What if it really was for nothing? What if he had been chasing something that didn't even exist?
He could feel the weight of that truth, crushing down on him. It was more than he could bear. He wanted to scream, to fight, keep going, keep trying, but there was a part of him that just wanted to stop, to rest, to forget about everything and wait.
He stilled the shaking of his hands before the weave could be ruined, but it didn't stop his mind from teetering on the edge of breaking. He had pushed himself so far past the point of no return that he wasn't sure he could even recognize himself anymore. He couldn't even remember what rest felt like.
He had been running for so long, even when there was no more ground beneath him to run on, that he didn't even know how to stop.
Every second was spent moving, fighting. And even when he made camp, he trained, thought of ways to become stronger or escape, refined his control over essence. He did everything he could to tire himself out so that when it was time to sleep, he would be too exhausted to think.
About himself. About his situation. About Her.
But waiting? Could he do that? Could he really just sit back and trust that she would come? That she would save him and fix all of his problems?
It made him feel sick.
So why did it feel like everything he had done, everything he had fought for, was slipping through his fingers?
He should keep fighting. He had to. He had come too far to just stop now. But maybe... just maybe... the idea of giving up didn't sound so far-fetched anymore. The weight of it was too much. The doubt too strong.
And then there was Her.
She hadn't forgotten.
She had not given up on him.
If Weaver were to be believed—and what was the point of lying?—she would show up in a few years, like some sort of knight in shining armor to rescue him.
Hate and love warred inside him, neither ceding ground, neither willing to admit defeat. It was maddening.
In an attempt to distract himself—a futile action, since he could think about many things at once thanks to [Mind Weave]—he pulled up the runes.
[Master: Changing Star]
[Rank: Ascended.]
[Soul Cores: 7/7]
[Soul Fragments: 3141/7000]
She... she had ascended.
His Master was a master now.
He chuckled, almost bitterly. What else could he expect? If anything, he should be surprised she hadn't done so earlier.
But that only highlighted another problem. If he waited, he would remain a Sleeper, while she would be a Saint at the very least.
The balance of power was already tilted in her favor, but in that situation? His autonomy would begin and end with whatever she decided—and he could do nothing about it.
If he waited, he could forget about ever having control over his life again.
Control...
Hadn't he said that it was the essence of combat?
...
He was such a fool!
Of course, he hadn't found what he had been looking for in this Temple!
Of course, Weaver hadn't given him an answer he was willing to accept!
He had already given up all the way back in that damn cave, right after using the [Where is my eye?] enchantment. He had allowed Fate to dictate his actions, to lead him to this Spell-forsaken Temple.
And then, he had allowed Weaver to control him, followed his instructions without pause. Even now, two weeks after waking up from his transformation, he was doing nothing but following those instructions to weave.
It was time to stop. Not because he was giving up, but because he needed a break before going back into the madness.
It was time to think. Think hard.
It was time to take back control.
Over his life, over his destiny, over the world itself, if he needed to.
His gaze snapped eastward. If the murals were to be believed—and they had been accurate so far—the Temple of the Twin Gods lay west of Aleras. Gateways often formed around important landmarks or locations, and there was no other place he knew of that could match.
He would travel east and find Aleras. If there was a usable Gateway there, great.
If not, he would leave The Tears behind, return to the Dark City, and from there explore either the East or the North.
And if, even then, he didn't find a way out? He would cross the Hollow Mountains.
He had already done the impossible countless times. What was one more?
No more weeping. No more self-pity. He was taking back control. The control he should have never given up.
As if to prove himself right, he completed the weave just as that thought finished forming.
[You have acquired a memory: Shadow Chair]
His first successful attempt at turning an object into a memory.
He grinned. "Prepare yourself, world. I'm coming back."
-------------------------------------------
Sunny dusted his hands off, having just finished scavenging everything he could from the remains of the nightmare creatures outside the Temple.
He grinned proudly at the Safebox. He had decided to use his only transcendent shard to improve it, knowing that he'd always find it useful to have more space to store things.
It was a worthy upgrade as far as he was concerned. The exterior of the Safebox still looked the same, but inside? The space had expanded by an entire order of magnitude, allowing him to store much more than before.
Currently, it was full of meat, some furniture from the temple he wanted to keep, and spoils from the creatures he could use later. The most notable was the obsidian he'd recovered from Wrath's body. It was sharp and surprisingly sturdy—perfect for makeshift blades or arrowheads.
He glanced back at the Temple, the incarnation of his hope and despair, and felt like it was time. All in all, he had spent two months inside the Temple.
He had rested, trained, practiced his weaving, and gotten used to his new and improved body.
Now, it was time to leave.
To find his way out.
To take back control.
He could hear Fate's almost-whisper in the back of his mind, urging him to stay, telling him he wouldn't find what he was looking for.
He heard it, and he ignored it.
If Fate wanted him to listen, it should have delivered on its promises from the start.
He looked east once more, toward Aleras, toward his salvation—if luck decided to smile on him for once—or, if it didn't, to his last visit in The Tears.
Beside him stood Saint, just as ready as ever to back him against the world.
He smiled despite it all.
"I know it's going to be a long and harrowing journey, one that will test every part of me. There will be danger, grief, and pain. But I also know this: I've faced the darkness before, and I've survived. I've walked through hell and come back, scarred but stronger. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how many times I fall, I won't stop. If that is my will… then who dares stop me?"
-------------------------------------------
"It was a long and harrowing journey, filled with danger, grief, and pain. But we did it."
Two months later, he had found it. Aleras.
There, a few days of travel away, stood the remnants of the city. He had found what was left of Aleras.
The tower loomed high, its silhouette cutting against the sky like the last remnant of a forgotten age. It stood tall and magnificent, though time had not been kind. The stone was worn, etched with the scars of centuries. Its once-vibrant surface had faded, cracked, and weathered by the elements. Yet, despite its decayed appearance, the tower stood proud, unwavering against the endless passage of time—an indomitable monument to something ancient and enduring.
Around it stretched an eerie, impenetrable circle of nothingness—a void so deep and absolute that it seemed to consume everything in its path. Not even raindrops could reach its hollow expanse. It was as though the world itself had been erased, leaving only the tower to guard the emptiness.
And before it, he saw it.
A Seed of Nightmare.