Lucian drifted downward slowly, swallowed by an endless darkness. His Thought faded and, even fear struggled to take shape.
Far below, at the end of that dark chasm, Lucian saw a crimson seed shaped like a drop of blood. As he drifted down to it, the pull was immediate. It dragged in his body, it tore apart his very being, his memories warped and sensations twisted, he felt himself stretching thin, unraveling like loose threads.
Lucian tried to resist, to hold on to something, anything..but it was all useless.
The seed consumed everything. Just as his last sliver of consciousness was about to vanish completely, light cut through the darkness.
High above, a familiar book appeared. The book that David always kept to himself. Its cover cracked open, pages riffling with a sound like rushing wind. Golden light spilled out and scattered the darkness like shards of glass. Tiny, radiant motes streamed toward the book, as if the abyss itself was being erased. The suffocating pull vanished in an instant as the crimson seed flickered, distorted and soon got absorbed into the book, and the abyss itself crumbled into dust, leaving only blinding light.
In the chapel,
Lucian stood frozen in the circle. The red glow that had flared just moments ago withdrew like receding flames. Golden particles drifted lazily back into his chest,
The halo that had been forming above his head, collapsed into faint sparks and disappeared.
The sparks gathered around his right hand, swirling and tightening until a ring formed. It had two angels carved in delicate detail, arms stretched toward a blazing sun in the middle. It shimmered for a brief moment, then dissolved into fine dust, leaving behind an ink-black tattoo of the same design etched into his finger.
Lucian's eyes slowly opened, he was still in the chapel. Nothing had changed. The children were lined up just as before. Father Victor stood where he had been. No one else seemed to notice what had just happened.
'That book…' Lucian placed a hand against his chest, feeling the frantic throbbing of his heart.
'If it hadn't been for that book, I'd be gone for sure. But how did it even get here?'
Father Victor's breath hitched as he rushed forward, gripping Lucian's hand with trembling fingers. He slid his glasses down his nose as he stared at the tattoo, eyes wide with disbelief.
"By the Light…" he whispered. "This… this.. this is..impossible" He muttered slowly.
"Boy, place your hand here," Father Victor instructed, as if trying to confirm something.
Lucian nodded and set his right hand on the open book. A soft golden shimmer spread from his palm and words slowly started appearing on the page.
____
§ Lucian Wyrmsley §
Relic of Valmor -
-Ring of Light (Earth-grade, Mid-tier)
> Light Magic (Earth-grade, Low-tier)
> Rapid Recovery (Earth-grade, Mid-tier)
> Swordsmanship (High-grade)
> Mana body (High-grade)
____
Father Victor's brows shot up, his stern face cracking into astonishment. .
"It's… truly a relic talent." His voice trembled, from the weight of the revelation.
"Heaven be praised, finally, someone from this district has a relic. With this alone, boy, you're destined for great."
Lucian barely heard him. His attention was locked on his own hand, his finger brushed over the faint tattoo etched into his skin. The design was intricate with a network of fine lines curling into a shape he hadn't fully noticed before.
He tilted his hand, following the pattern to its underside, then froze.
There, hidden beneath the main mark, was a tiny symbol of an open book, carved into his flesh.
'This isn't normal' Lucian thought, his gaze still fixed on the faint book-shaped mark.
'That bastard… I'm certain now, he's the one who dragged me into that nightmare. He must've been after the book, why else would someone with his power bother with rituals done by mere mortals? That's the conclusion I can come up with.
True or not, it doesn't matter anymore. I'd rather be cautious than regret later. For nowI'll keep this hidden. I don't think there's any need for me to dig into something that's clearly far beyond me.'
Lucian's fists tightened and his eyes glinted with a rare, steely resolve. Determination had never been part of who he was. In his previous life, his natural talent had carried him through every challenge effortlessly. Struggle was something that he never faced,
But now… now, for the first time across both his lives, he felt it..something vast, unreachable, utterly beyond his grasp and that realization cut deeper in him than fear ever could.
And in that quiet, something within Lucian shifted.
'And whoever that motherfucker is… whatever he is… if he's still alive, one day, I'll kill him. I don't care if it's absurd of me to think that way. I'll make him pay for every second of agony he's put me through.'
A young boy in the crowd stepped forward timidly. "Father… what's a relic talent?" he asked curiously, breaking through the awkward silence that had fallen over the room as Lucian obviously didn't respond to father and he just stood there waiting for just someone to speak up.
He took out the book and flipped to a vacant page,
"Boy, a very good question."
Father Victor's voice softened as he looked down at the young boy who had stepped forward. With a gentle smile he shifted his tome in one hand and made a sweeping gesture with the other. Ink bled from his fingertips like liquid, curling through the air.
The floating black streams swirled before forming shimmering words above his head. They twisted and melted into different shapes.
"Low grade…" Father Victor said, his tone carrying the weight of centuries of tradition.
The inked figures shifted, a weary farmer stooped over fields, sweat dripping from his brow; a mother stirring a pot while a child tugged at her skirt; a man conjuring small droplets of water to splash over crops; a soldier sitting alone his armor dented, his posture bent in exhaustion. The faint sound of tools striking earth and the bubbling of stew seemed to hum in the air.
"This is the most common level of talent," Victor explained, his hand guiding the puppets' movements like a seasoned storyteller.
"It is certainly not strong and clearly not suited for grand feats. With it, one can plow fields, lift a sword to defend one's home, or summon a bit of magic just enough to cast a small fireball, or other basic magic. But…" He sighed, the farmer's figure collapsed in the ink and swirled away.
"It is not enough to reach higher paths. Mortal minds and bodies, with no higher grade talents supporting them, cannot even grasp advanced swordsmanship or complex magic."
With a flick of his wrist, the shapes dissolved and reformed.
"Mid grade," he continued, and new figures appeared. This time, armored soldiers clashed on a battlefield, shields raised as fireballs streaked overhead. In the corner, an assistant handed herbs to an alchemist who stirred a cauldron, faint plumes of smoke curling upward.
"These talents form the backbone of every kingdom and empire," Victor said with a steady voice.
"They are the steel that holds our walls, the hands that brew our healing portions, the strength that marches to war. Without mid-grade talents, our armies would crumble, our guilds would wither, and the empire itself would falter." The soldiers raised their shields as one, the magic circle behind them glowing faintly before fading away.
He spun his fingers once more. The ink twisted higher, swelling into larger and sharper silhouettes.
"High grade…" His tone carried a touch of reverence this time.
The battlefield shifted to reveal a commander pointing his sword as ranks of soldiers rallied to his cry. Behind him, a grand mage stood at the center of a glowing array as hundreds of spellcasters channeled power into a colossal fireball that ignited the sky. Elsewhere, an alchemist twirled flames between his palms before tossing them into a cauldron, causing pills to burst out in blinding light.
Victor's eyes softened. "With high-grade talent, one can rise above the crowd. A single individual can decide the fate of a battlefield. Families are elevated to nobility by such gifts alone. High-grade talents lead, create, and carve legacies that last generations." The commander's silhouette lifted his sword to the skies before dissolving like smoke.
Next came a deep, rumbling wave of ink, swirling into towering shapes that cast long shadows across the chapel walls.
"Earth grade," Victor declared, his voice booming with pride.
The figures this time were fearsome, a man draped in a wolf's pelt with dual axes in hand, charged into battle as enemy soldiers clashed with him and flew like leaves in a storm.
A woman stood atop a cliff, her arms spread wide, as rays of light cascaded down upon the soldiers below, their cries of valor echoed in unison.
"These talents have potential to break the mortal shell," Victor said.
"They are the empire's true weapons, the pillars of power. With earth-grade talent, you can shatter armies and heal thousands. They bend nature to their will. Kingdoms rise and fall on the backs of such talents. They are not merely soldiers or mages, they are considered forces of nature." The wolf-clad warrior swung his axes one final time, and the scene dissipated into ink mist.
Then, silence.
"huff..huff" Victor took a moment to catch his breath, and then raised his hand again letting the ink swell higher, coiling like serpents until two colossal silhouettes formed, they stood on opposing cliffs across the infinitely stretching battlefield.
"Sky grade…" Victor's voice was a near whisper now, as though speaking too loudly might break the illusion.
The shadowed warriors launched themselves forward, their movements blurring beyond mortal sight. They clashed midair, shockwaves blasting the ground below into a perfect circle.
Soldiers were thrown aside like dust in a storm. Nearby, a white-robed healer appeared, lifting her hands as a divine dome of energy encompassed the battlefield, sealing wounds and breathing life back into the fallen comrades.
Victor turned, his expression solemn. "Sky-grade talents… at their peak, they surpass kings and command nations. They can be walking calamities or healers who defy death, warriors who can split mountains, mages who rewrite the sky itself. When two such beings meet…" He gestured to the violent clash above the battlefield. "…even empires tremble." The titanic duel froze, then shattered into a thousand glowing motes.
Finally, the priest's fingers moved slower and more deliberately, as golden ink drifted from his fingers. The chapel glowed faintly as it formed an image of an emperor sitting on a towering golden throne, his crown gleaming like a captured sun. As soon as the image appeared the chapel air felt a lot heavier. Then the imagine moved,
High above him, a venerable figure sat cross-legged at a jagged peak of a mountain. An otherworldly calm radiated from him. A simple fishing rod dangled lazily from his hand, its line stretching into the clouds below.
Beneath the mountain, another silhouette appeared surrounded by a sea of endless fire. The heat from the vision licked at the chapel walls.
Around them, other robed figures appeared, their forms blurred. They stood upon drifting clouds, their mere presence was enough to make the chapel tremble.
"Heaven grade," Victor said softly, bowing his head slightly. "These are not mortals… they are beings touched by divinity itself. Born masters of their craft, their strength and insight defy comprehension. They shape the fate of the world. They walk paths that brush against godhood, They're closer to gods than to mortals.
"And now…" Father Victor's voice softened, as he turned a fresh page of his tome. His fingers glided across the parchment, and, this time ink black as night spiraled into the air like smoke. The children hushed, their small breaths held as the magic began to weave a new story.
Above their heads, a vast, starless sky unfurled. For a moment, there was only darkness. Then, a single point of light appeared. It began to fall, soon splitting into two, then five, then thirteen, until the entire heavens shimmered with drifting lights.
The children gasped as the lights bloomed brighter, their glow spilling across the chapel's ceiling until the darkness was banished completely. But it didn't stop there, within the white canvas, new forms took shape.
Silhouettes emerged, one after another. Some towered, broad-shouldered and imposing while others were thin as reeds. There were men and women, some also into inhuman shapes, winged beings, horned shadows, figures with too many arms. All their faces were blurred, still their presence made it hard to breathe.
"That's..that's the God of Light, right?" a small boy asked, pointing at one of the glowing outlines.
Another child tugged at his sleeve, pointing toward a different silhouette. "And that's the War Goddess!"
Father Victor smiled faintly but did not interrupt. The silhouettes glimmered faintly as certain objects upon them began to glow gold, halos, crowns, gilded rings, ornate gloves, trailing robes, even wings and horns. The rest of their forms remained shadowy.
Then, like falling petals, the golden objects detached. One by one as they crumbled into specks of dust, drifting downward through the bright sky. As they fell, the previous scenes began to reform again. The king with his crown; the fisherman and his fishing rod, the duelists on the battlefield with their weapons. and the healer with her bracelet.
Father Victor lowered his hand slightly, letting the images hang in the air like a living puppet show. "Every relic," he said slowly, "is believed to be a fragment blessed by a god, a spark of divinity given a form. Unlike ordinary talents, relics are physical manifestations, forged from the amalgamation of multiple talents in perfect harmony. They are simply… extraordinary."
He waved his hand again, and words began to write themselves in glowing letters above the puppet-like figures,
Earth-grade Relics… Sky-grade Relics… Heaven-grade Relics.
"All relic talents begin at Earth-grade," Victor continued, "As they are born with many talents in one, it elevates their foundation by default. Each relic also carries the name of its divine origin. The Relic of Light you saw today, he pointed at Lucian's marked hand, "is known as a relic of Valmor, under God of Light. Should one awaken a relic of the War Goddess, it would bear the name, Relic of Baelric, and so on"
The images slowly dissolved into starlight, drifting down like snowflakes before vanishing completely.