The sun had already set when Tylor left.
Alaric stood at the entrance of the estate, staring at the orange horizon.
He had read stories where the night sky was filled with countless stars. Yet in all his years, he had never seen such a sky with his own eyes.
Fiction was fiction.
No matter how attached someone became to a character, no matter how much inspiration they drew from them, they remained unreal. Even if such people existed, reality would twist them into something different. Every human being carried contradictions within them.
Alaric stretched out his hand toward the horizon. "Maybe...this is the right thing."
After mumbling slowly, he closed the entrance and went to the kitchen. Kale had gone to buy groceries and wine.
It's been so long since I last cooked.
The kitchen was silent, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in his mind. Alaric stood before the counter, rolling up his sleeves. It had been years since he last handled a kitchen knife for anything other than business hospitality, but the muscle memory remained intact. He decided on a simple, searing skillet dish to quiet the hollow ache in his stomach.
With practiced precision, his newly restored fingers gathered the ingredients: a firm winter onion, a crisp green bell pepper, and a handful of dried red chilies. The knife clicked rhythmically against the wooden board, reducing the vegetables into clean, uniform strips.
Turning to the stove, Alaric ignited the burners. A hiss filled the air as the liquid and gaseous blue coal flames sprang to life, casting an eerie, cobalt glow across the metal grates.
He placed a heavy iron pan over the intense heat, tossed in a splash of oil, and threw the vegetables into the sizzle, sautéing them until the sharp, pungent aroma of charred chili and sweet onion filled the room.
While the vegetables softened, Alaric reached into the cooling box and pulled out a fresh chicken breast from the lower shelf.
He quickly cubed the meat, tossing it into a bowl with a dollop of thick curd, a heavy pinch of crushed black pepper, and coarse salt. Once thoroughly marinated, he dumped the seasoned chicken straight into the smoking pan, the blue flames roaring around the iron edges.
Thirty minutes later, the meal was finished.
When Alaric was putting his bowl in the sink, his eyes caught his reflection in the window, in which half his face was bent in the reflection due to the light. And at that very exact moment, Alaric remembered the thing Tylor told him before he went.
"The more you use conduit , The less you can differentiate between Dream and Reality."
Alaric shook his hand and dried his hand. At first, the statement sounded ridiculous.
Then he imagined conducting a negotiation that had never happened, remembering a debt that did not exist, or spending months planning revenge against a man who had never betrayed him.
His fingers paused.
No. That wasn't madness. Madness was knowing reality and rejecting it. This was worse. This was losing the ability to know which reality was real in the first place.
But Alaric still dismissed it. Thinking about a disaster that might arrive months later while another one was already approaching was pointless. A man could only solve the problem standing in front of him. Everything else was speculation.
Alaric left the kitchen, the heavy iron pan still radiating a faint, fading heat behind him.
As he crossed the grand foyer toward the base of the staircase, the heavy oak front doors swung open with a crisp click. Kale stepped inside, carrying two thick canvas sacks packed with fresh winter groceries, a dark green bottle of Teal Charm wine resting securely under his arm.
The butler stopped the moment his boots hit the marble, his eyes tracking Alaric's movement on the stairs.
"Sir," Kale spoke up, his voice retaining its low, professional gravity, though there was an underlying tension to his words. "The market streets are... highly volatile tonight. Word of your return has already leaked through the Western communication hubs. The phone booth officer must have talked."
Alaric didn't pause his ascent. He kept his hand flat against the polished wooden banister, his boots stepping rhythmically upward. "Let them talk. It changes nothing."
"It isn't just standard merchant gossip, Mr. Xyle," Kale continued, following him to the foot of the stairs, his brow furrowing slightly. "The narrative has fractured. Half the sector is whispering that your survival is a miracle, calling you a 'Child of God' who escaped the executioners there reasoning is first you vanished for eighteen days and you came back without anyone knowing."
" The other half, mostly those connected to the lower docks, are claiming you bargained with the abyss saying you are the one who is joining with the evils and overthrow cathedral of gods and establish cathedrals of devil. They are calling you a 'Child of Devil.'"
Alaric didn't even turn around. He scoffed quietly under his breath, the title *Mr. Seller* flashing briefly in his memory before he firmly locked it away.
"They can call me whatever balances their fear and that devil shit is hilarious. Ensure the gates are locked, Kale. I am not to be disturbed."
Without waiting for a response, Alaric marched down the dark hallway and entered his bedroom, shutting the heavy door behind him. He didn't turn on the gas lamps, the pale, cold moonlight bleeding through the frosted windows was more than enough.
It was time to test the variables Tylor had handed him.
Alaric sat cross-legged on the center of his mattress, closing his eyes. He focused entirely on the foreign, subterranean thrum pulsing steadily behind his ribs.
Think of it as blood flowing through your veins. Use it.
He extended his right hand into the dim air, opening his palm. He tried to force the energy outward, visualizing the purple, weightless essence of Singularity flowing down his forearm. He pushed, straining his mind to command the current.
Nothing happened.
The air remained completely still.
His palm was empty, the skin cold.
He had pushed too hard, treating the conduit like an industrial machine rather than an extension of his own biology.
Alaric took a deep, controlled breath.
The second way: breathing. Inhaling and exhaling from every cell of your body.
He let his shoulders drop, releasing the frantic tension.
He stopped fighting the anchor in his chest and simply allowed himself to match its heavy, quiet frequency.
He inhaled slowly, imagining the crisp, freezing air entering not through his lungs, but pulling into his skin, his muscles, his very bones. On the exhale, he let the internal pulse expand naturally.
A sudden, sharp chill rippled across his right arm.
Alaric opened his eyes. In the center of his open palm, the pale moonlight violently distorted.
Tiny, beautiful purplish energy molecules began to coalesce, swirling like a microscopic vortex just above his skin.
The air around his hand vibrated with a low, silent frequency that hummed in perfect alignment with his heart.
He had done it. He was finally channeling the conduit properly. Alaric watched the purple embers dance for a long moment, a cold, calculated satisfaction settling deep into his eyes.
The tool was functional. The source was awake. The pieces of his masterpiece were finally falling into place.
Alaric inhaled slowly. He had also asked Tylor how to summon your Lumen Siphon. And it was relatively simple.
"Three inhales and exhales is what it takes." Alaric repeating Tylor's words.
But Alaric had already noticed a flaw. If someone is suffocating him, it will take more time to summon his Lumen Siphon, and if he is exhausted it will take less time because everyone breathes faster when exhausted.
Alaric inhaled a second time and exhaled. As he inhaled a third time with the intention of summoning the blade, beautiful purplish particles started to come out of his chest and form the shape of the perfect blade in his right hand.
The weightless, purplish steel of Singularity solidified completely within his restored fingers.
Alaric held it up, watching the moonlight cut across the crystalline edge, admiring the quiet, flawless beauty of the weapon for a brief moment.
Then, he casually opened his palm and let it drop.
The blade fell, defying the standard rush of gravity in a slow, elegant descent. The exact millisecond the tip brushed the hardwood floor, it didn't clatter.
Instead, it instantly shattered, dissolving back into a brilliant cloud of tiny purplish energy molecules.
Before Alaric could even blink, the particles surged upward like a striking snake, piercing straight through the center of his chest.
It didn't tear his clothes, it didn't split his skin, and it caused absolutely no damage, but a strange, cold rush vibrated through his core as the blade returned to its anchor.
Alaric exhaled smoothly. He slid off the edge of the bed and walked over to his dark mahogany desk.
Sitting down in the leather chair, he pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from the stack, dipped his fountain pen deep into the black inkwell, and began to write.
He wasn't writing a ledger. He was writing a letter to the premier party organization firm in the Western Sector.
To the Director of Grand Celebrations,
The day after tomorrow, a formal gathering will be hosted at the Xyle Estate. I require your organization to oversee the entire event, from the grand decorations to the catering, staffing, and the dispatch of invitations.
You are to issue invitations to every merchant and businessman ranked within the Top 80 of the sector registry.
Furthermore, you will print a massive public banner to be displayed at the exact center of the sector, announcing the event. On that banner, ensure the following words are written in the boldest ink possible: 'With special attendance by my closest friend, Lord Volt.'
Do not deny this commission. I am the same individual about whom Tylor spoke to you (and if he has not yet, he will very soon).
— Alaric Xyle.
Alaric laid the pen down, letting the thick black ink glisten under the pale winter light. He stared at the name Lord Volt bound to the text, a cold, ruthless smirk slowly breaking across his face.
The invitations would be delivered, the banner would rise, and the stage for his masterpiece would be perfectly set.