The sky was illuminated by brilliant golden light.
Yet there was no proper sky.
Soft, luminous grass covered the ground, and at its center stood a gigantic, beautiful tree.
The tree dwarfed even mountains.
Yet surrounding it was what seemed to be a wall.
No...
They were not walls either.
Across those boundaries were carved runes of knowledge that must not be known.
Not all of the knowledge.
But enough.
Enough to cause beings who learned it to become Corrupted.
Yet what was most striking was neither the enormous tree nor the walls covered in forbidden runes.
It was the man sitting across the strange land.
A dark throne rested beneath him, golden threads carved across its surface.
The figure was clad entirely in black.
A demonic mask concealed his face.
This was the being who had rebelled against Sovereign Asterion.
The figure did not move.
One leg rested over the other as he leaned calmly into the throne, his gaze remaining on the enormous tree not far away.
Behind the tree was a carving.
And among its roots—
A nameless sarcophagus.
Yet there was an inscription.
Golden strings and threads flowed around the words.
Here lies the adored of Weaver.
All hail Oblivion, the Daemon of Erasure.
The masked man stared at it for a moment.
Then—
He looked up.
As if sensing something.
The land disappeared.
The tree vanished.
The place itself moved.
Mist formed.
Shadows fell.
Everything changed within a second.
Yet somehow...
Nothing had.
The man on the throne did not care about the change.
His throne was simply back in the room where it belonged.
There were more thrones here.
The enormous hall was dark.
So dark that even the black marble floor and walls seemed pale in comparison.
There was only one source of light.
A ray descended from somewhere impossibly high above.
The masked being looked up.
Something was moving.
It resembled the night sky itself slithering across the darkness, shimmering with distant starlight.
Several night skies seemed to overlap one another.
Yet the man knew they were not night skies.
Soul Serpents.
A species of shadow creature created by the God of Death.
The man waited without concern.
The creatures slithered downward.
Shadows gathered beneath them, creating a vast sea of darkness.
The serpents descended into that sea and began swimming through it.
Transcendent Titans.
Each one dwarfed mountains.
Each possessed enough power to wipe civilizations from existence.
At the pinnacle of their Rank and Class, every one of them possessed the power to kill nearly any Saint alive.
If all seven attacked a Saint together...
Not a single Saint in either Realm could walk away alive and victorious.
Not one.
And all seven served one man.
The shadows moved.
A figure emerged.
He stood atop the sea of darkness while seven Transcendent Titans circled around him.
He was clad in black.
A mask concealed his face as well.
Similar to the one worn by the being sitting upon the throne.
The newcomer looked down at him.
"Ahh."
The seated man released a quiet sound.
"Come to see Mother's grave, did you?"
The man upon the throne remained silent for a moment.
"Mother?"
He repeated the word as though testing it.
His gaze moved toward the dark wall where the great tree had once been visible.
"I suppose we could call her that."
The shadows lowered.
The seven Transcendent Titans slithered aside.
Yet the newcomer never touched the marble floor.
He remained suspended above it, standing upon shadows as he looked toward the man on the throne.
"What has become of War and Beast?" the seated man asked.
The one surrounded by shadows did not answer immediately.
Then came a quiet scoff.
"You ask as if you don't know."
The man remained above him.
"Oh, great abomination. Do you not know everything?"
Something in his voice sharpened.
"Are you not the one who bears the curse of a Daemon?"
He paused.
"Heir of Weaver, the Daemon of Fate."
The man on the throne did not look up immediately.
However—
Golden threads appeared throughout the air.
Thousands.
Millions.
Seemingly endless.
They stretched into the darkness with terrifying precision.
"Heir of Shadow."
His voice was calm.
So calm that it became eerie.
Suddenly, far above them, several golden threads shot across the enormous space.
More followed.
And more.
Soon, the endless ceiling was covered by an immense golden web.
Something moved within it.
Seven enormous creatures emerged.
Each was comparable in size to the Soul Serpents.
Seven Transcendent Titans.
No name.
A kind of being created by Weaver, the Daemon of Fate.
The creatures crawled across the golden threads, suspended high above the hall as though answering the presence of the serpents below.
"Keeper of Fate," the Heir of Shadow spoke.
"Lord of Shadows," the Heir of Weaver answered.
The atmosphere changed.
Compared to the two men, the Titans were incomprehensibly large.
World-ending calamities circling them like monstrous beasts.
Yet somehow...
The presence of the two men felt far more threatening than that of the Titans.
For a moment, the air remained thick with power and tension.
Then—
The pressure disappeared.
The spiders retreated into the golden web.
The serpents sank beneath the sea of shadows.
The two men seemed to calm.
They looked at each other.
"What of War?" the Keeper of Fate asked.
"Arrogant, much like their progenitor," the Lord of Shadows answered.
"What of Beast?" the Heir of Weaver asked.
"Foolish, much like their god," the Heir of Shadow answered.
"..."
"What of the rest?" the Lord of Shadows asked.
The Keeper of Fate remained silent.
Then—
"You ask as if you don't know, Shadow."
"I suppose we are the same in that regard..."
The two stared at each other.
"How wretched it must be for you," the Lord of Shadows spoke.
"To bear the curse of a Daemon."
His voice echoed through the hall.
"To know what has happened..."
A pause.
"And what will happen."
The Keeper of Fate looked at him.
Then his gaze shifted toward the empty space where the tree had once stood.
"You speak as if you are free from such pain."
He looked back.
"You, too, bear the boon of a Great God."
The Heir continued.
"How painful it must be for you to be burdened with the shadows."
The Lord of Shadows turned toward the same empty space.
"Ahh, but it is not."
His voice was calm.
"After all, the Shadow God may have given me his blood..."
He paused.
"But I never accepted his will."
"Reject the will of a Great God? How peculiar. Is that even possible?"
The Lord of Shadows scoffed.
"You, of all beings, should not be the one to say that."
He turned toward the Keeper of Fate.
His demeanor remained calm.
His voice did not.
"After all..."
The eyes behind his mask narrowed.
"You rejected the will of the gods with me, did you not?"
The man walked deeper into the darkness.
Then he turned and sat upon seemingly empty air.
The darkness parted.
Another throne was revealed beneath him.
More shadows retreated.
More of the black marble hall became visible.
Seven thrones appeared across the great hall of darkness and shadows.
Yet...
There was an empty space along one side.
A place where another throne should have stood.
The Lord of Shadows spoke.
His calm voice traveled into the distant corners of the great hall.
"Have you forgotten the rebellion all of us led before the Doom War?"
The Heir of Weaver looked at him for a moment.
Then looked away.
"As if there is something you could remember that I can forget."
Silence settled across the hall.
Eventually—
"The Sovereign on the moon," the Lord of Shadows said.
The Heir of Weaver looked back.
"What of his Domain?" the Lord of Shadows asked.
"It will take time," the Heir of Weaver answered.
"However, it will be done."
He paused.
"Enough, at least."
...
"Will it truly happen?" the Keeper of Fate asked.
The Lord of Shadows looked at him.
"It is quite the impossible task. You think it can be achieved?"
The Lord of Shadows considered the question for a moment.
"It is not whether it can be achieved, but when."
His voice became cold.
"The idea of victory does not exist for me."
He stood from his throne.
"I will do what I must."
He walked forward.
The black marble floor shifted.
Something emerged from beneath it.
An altar.
A Citadel's altar.
"Fate has decided?"
The Lord of Shadows stepped onto it.
"That Changing Star cannot die."
His voice echoed throughout the darkness.
"Which is why..."
His gaze went to the empty space that seemed perfect for an eighth throne.
The Citadel began to disappear around him.
"I will kill her."
The altar vanished.
And the man disappeared with it.
The Heir of Weaver continued staring at the place where the Lord of Shadows had been.
Eventually, he stood.
His gaze briefly moved toward the empty space where the enormous tree had once stood.
Then he walked forward.
The black marble moved for him as well.
Another altar belonging to a Citadel rose from the floor.
The Keeper of Fate stepped upon it.
"No matter who resists..."
His words traveled through the empty hall.
"All are bound to the will of Fate."
The Citadel began to disappear as the Keeper of Fate's gaze turned to the empty space between the thrones, and some darkness crept in to reveal the beginning of grander steps.
"And all shall be forced to fulfill its will."
The altar vanished.
Only the last of his words remained, echoing through the darkness.
"Unless one above both the Great Gods and the Void appears."
...
It was a peaceful day in Bastion as Nephis made her way through the halls of the great castle belonging to the Valor Clan, her friend Cassie following beside her.
Unfortunately, today she was not heading toward the café.
In her hand rested a sword created by Master Sunless.
He had given it to her the morning she left, alongside enough sweets to require a storage Memory.
Naturally, this meant Song of the Fallen had been provided with both teasing material and the sweets to accompany it.
However—
The sword in Nephis's hands truly was extraordinary.
So precise.
So balanced.
So perfectly proportioned and weighted that it felt as though it was the best sword for her across both Realms.
And so, both like a child with a new toy and the skilled warrior she was, Nephis could hardly bring herself to let go of it.
And Master Sunless had created it merely as a trial weapon.
A trial weapon carrying several enchantments she appreciated very much.
While Nephis did not precisely rely on mind hexes, that did not mean she couldn't appreciate them.
Master Sunless had clearly put considerable thought into each enchantment.
'I wonder how many days he worked on this?'
Her gaze softened.
Someone turned a corner ahead and immediately bowed upon seeing her.
Nephis's eyes became cold again as she raised her chin in polite acknowledgment.
The man quickened his pace, intimidated by her cold expression.
Nephis neither noticed nor cared.
"Little sister."
A woman's voice came from one of the adjoining halls.
Cassie and Nephis stopped.
Standing there was Princess Morgan of Valor.
Several smiths surrounded her as they examined an assortment of weapons.
"Would you like to give some assessment on these weapons?"
Morgan's eyes fell upon the sword in Nephis's hand.
Nephis and Cassie walked over.
The smiths around Morgan glanced curiously at the blade as well.
Their conversation continued for several minutes before a man hurried toward them.
"Lady Morgan. Lady Changing Star."
The Saints turned toward him.
"What is it?" Morgan asked.
"It-it's the King. He is in the forge."
Everyone immediately gave him their full attention.
...
Around that same time, another man entered the great forge.
Every smith and worker stopped.
They bowed.
Then, according to established rules, immediately returned to their work.
Anvil of Valor had arrived.
The King of Swords walked through the enormous hall on one of the rare occasions he personally visited the great forges.
Hundreds of smiths worked around him.
The thunderous sounds of metal striking metal were contained within individual forging stations by enchantments, preventing the combined noise from becoming unbearable.
Great heat filled the air.
Anvil walked calmly among his people, examining their work.
He passed the first dozen.
Then several more.
Nothing caught his attention.
Rather—
Everything disappointed him.
'Subpar.'
Another forge.
'Inadequate.'
He passed through the first hall and entered the next.
There were fewer forges here.
More space separated each workstation.
The smiths were more skilled.
Anvil remained uninterested.
Not a single blade was decent.
The next hall belonged to some of the finest smiths of Valor.
Around fifty forges occupied the enormous chamber.
Every strike delivered against the metal possessed a level of precision far beyond those in the previous halls.
Yet—
Anvil's gaze lingered upon an unfinished blade.
A man hammered it with intense concentration, sweat pouring from his body.
Perhaps his tension had increased because of the King's presence.
Still, he did not lose focus.
Anvil watched.
One strike.
Two.
Three.
Then he walked away.
'Too much strength.'
His expression remained unchanged.
'The metal has already lost too much of its purity.'
Nearly a tenth of its potential had already been sacrificed through excessively powerful strikes.
Anvil continued.
Another man was in the middle of allowing his metal to cool.
Upon noticing the Sovereign, he stood and bowed deeply.
Anvil's gaze shifted toward the spear resting beside him.
The smith nervously glanced between his King and his creation.
Anvil simply walked past.
'The strikes were too slow.'
His eyes remained cold.
'The spear never reached its best.'
He continued through the hall.
Some smiths were using their Aspects to apply enchantments during the forging process.
Others forged the weapons first and applied enchantments afterward.
There were dedicated enchanters as well—people who did not smith at all.
Yet their limitations remained.
Once a weapon had already been completed, there were limits to what enchantments could be placed upon it and how many it could contain.
However—
Anvil's gaze shifted toward another smith.
The man was applying an enchantment while simultaneously hammering the metal.
A considerable degree of concentration was necessary to do both.
And therein lay the problem.
His hammer struck a fraction away from the perfect location.
The next blow carried slightly too much strength.
The following one was slightly too weak.
Meanwhile, the enchantment itself suffered similar imperfections.
Its construction would demand more essence.
More control.
More concentration from its eventual wielder.
Enchanting and smithing simultaneously was extraordinarily difficult.
These were good smiths.
Some of the greatest alive.
But dividing their concentration meant neither the physical weapon nor its enchantments reached the absolute limit of their abilities.
There was a complexity to the task that could not simply be overcome through effort.
And yet...
Anvil could not help but feel disappointed.
He walked deeper into the hall and passed through a corridor until he reached a secured area.
Upon entering, he found himself standing on a high observation balcony.
Below him were ten separate forges, each surrounded by far more space than those outside.
The smiths below looked up.
All ten were Saints.
They bowed deeply to their King before returning to their work.
These were Valor's finest smiths.
Second only to Anvil himself.
Their strikes were radically more precise than those he had witnessed before.
Several enchanted their creations while forging them.
Their ability to perform both tasks simultaneously was precisely why they stood among Valor's ten greatest craftsmen.
Perhaps it was unfair to those whose Aspects did not grant such abilities.
But fairness had little place in the world of those who Ascended through the Ranks.
Anvil watched carefully.
These were the best of his Domain.
The weapons created within this chamber were unmatched throughout almost the entire world.
To Anvil's knowledge—
Only he could reliably create something better.
And yet...
The faintest hint of a frown entered his eyes.
He was disappointed.
The concentration required to simultaneously hammer metal and construct enchantments made some loss of quality inevitable.
He understood that.
Yet the Sovereign remained dissatisfied.
Anvil did not understand the intricacies of the Nightmare Spell itself.
Naturally.
But like everyone else, he had wielded weapons created by it.
He knew their quality.
When he held a Memory created by the Spell, he could tell that its materials had often been processed to a higher degree than what his smiths could achieve.
The efficiency of its enchantments was superior as well.
Less essence.
Less concentration.
Greater stability.
Anvil's Aspect and Rank gave him an intimate connection to his own creations, allowing him to forge at a level few others could approach.
He was one of the rare humans capable of creating certain works that could surpass what the Spell provided.
A handful of Valor's enchanters had managed to reach comparable efficiency to the Spell as well.
But only with relatively simple enchantments.
As complexity increased, their limitations became painfully apparent.
Even Anvil was constrained by his Aspect and the nature of his passion.
Most of his creations were oriented toward combat.
Still—
The disappointment remained.
Not one of his greatest smiths had truly reached the level of the Spell.
Every masterpiece created here had sacrificed at least some of the metal's potential.
The enchantments suffered similar degradation.
One smith completed his seventeenth fold before finishing his work.
Two others emerged from a side chamber.
One approached respectfully with a spear.
The other carried a sword.
"My King," the first man began with a smile. "This is a spear I've been perfecting for the past three days. It would be my honor for you to point out its mistakes."
"I have a sword I wish to present as well, my King," the other said reverently.
Anvil regarded them for a moment.
Then took the spear.
He twirled it once before pointing it forward.
"I have been placing a piercing enchantment for the past week. It should be able to pierce through even Transcendent armor of the First Tier," the smith explained.
Anvil poured his essence into it.
His expression did not change.
But his disappointment deepened.
'Too much essence.'
His gaze hardened.
'The focus necessary to maintain the enchantment and the constant supply of essence would become irritating over time even for an Ascended.'
He handed the spear back.
'And the metal has lost nearly a third of its potential through excessive hammering.'
Anvil said nothing.
The Saint's expression crumbled nonetheless.
The King accepted the second weapon.
The other smith spoke quickly.
"This one has an enchantment that maintains a sharpening edge when essence is poured into it. It can even scratch Ascended Memories of the Fifth Tier. With additional strength from the wielder, even scratching through Transcendent armor of the First Tier should be possible as well."
Anvil poured essence into the sword.
He pointed it outward.
His eyes moved along the flat of the blade with mild interest.
'The essence quantity is acceptable.'
A pause.
'But the control required will be distracting in combat.'
Then he examined the metal.
His assessment worsened.
'The hammering process was slowed to preserve concentration on the enchantment. The metal cooled prematurely.'
His fingers moved slightly across the blade.
'Barely half its potential.'
It would break earlier than comparable weapons.
Anvil returned it.
The second Saint's face fell as well.
'Inadequate.'
These weapons were better than almost anything most smiths of the age could create.
But not enough.
Nowhere near enough.
Movement came from behind him.
Several people entered the chamber.
Cassie.
Morgan.
Nephis.
Others followed them.
Anvil sighed inwardly and turned.
Before anyone could offer a greeting—
His gaze fell upon the weapon at Nephis's waist.
Anvil stopped.
Like most Awakened, Nephis usually dismissed her weapons into her Soul Sea when she wasn't using them.
Yet this one remained outside.
That alone drew his attention.
Then the source of his attention changed.
The blade itself.
Anvil stared.
Nephis and the others noticed.
"My King?"
Someone called carefully.
Anvil did not look away.
"That blade."
Everyone's gaze moved toward it.
"Show me."
Nephis's shoulders stiffened slightly.
Her hand tightened around the hilt for a moment.
She knew how extraordinary the sword was.
It rested more comfortably in her hand than any weapon she had ever wielded.
That included weapons created by the Nightmare Spell.
It included weapons forged within these very halls.
Even those Anvil himself had given her to strengthen her connection to his Domain through her Citadel.
But Master Sunless?
He had created something on a level Nephis knew Anvil would notice.
That was precisely what she had wanted to avoid.
Excessive attention placed Master Sunless in danger.
"This sword—"
Anvil did not wait.
The weapon flew from her grasp.
Nephis had no choice but to release it.
Anvil caught the sword.
He placed it between his hands.
And examined it.
Far more quickly and carefully than he had examined anything else that day.
Then—
He froze.
For only a moment.
His pupils narrowed almost imperceptibly.
'This blade...'
His eyes traced the metal.
'The metal was hammered precisely.'
His scrutiny deepened.
'Less than a tenth of its potential was lost. No...'
A pause.
'Less than a twentieth.'
Almost nothing had been wasted.
The edge was immaculate.
The proportions were exact.
The internal structure—
Anvil slowly extended the sword before him.
'Over two hundred folds.'
His thoughts stopped.
Whoever had made this...
Was either a madman—
Or someone standing at the pinnacle of his craft.
By now, everyone had noticed.
Even the smiths working below were looking toward the balcony.
Anvil poured essence into the blade.
His eyes nearly widened.
Nearly.
The first thing he noticed was the passive enchantment.
The blade sharpened without requiring conscious direction.
Anvil tilted it slightly, studying its edge.
Even with his naked eyes, he could tell how drastically its sharpness had increased.
A Transcendent armguard of the First Tier appeared in his other hand.
Cassie and Nephis remained still.
They already knew some of the Memory's capabilities.
The others watched in confusion.
Anvil swung.
The blade passed through the Transcendent armguard as easily as a hot knife passing through butter.
He had not strengthened the strike.
He had barely used any force at all.
Something appeared in Anvil's eyes.
Interest.
Morgan's folded arms lowered automatically.
Anvil glanced toward the sword held by one of the Saint smiths nearby.
That weapon had required deliberate concentration and far more essence merely to activate an enchantment capable of scratching something like this.
This blade?
Even an Ascended could cut through Transcendent protection with enough effort.
In the hands of a Saint...
Anvil looked back at the sword.
He couldn't directly perceive the enchantments because the Memory did not belong to him.
But he was far too skilled not to recognize certain signs.
'There are two more.'
He poured more essence into it.
Then turned.
SWING!
The sword cut through empty air.
Something happened.
BAM!
For a moment—
Everyone stared.
Anvil's cape fluttered gently.
Across the high wall of the circular chamber was a long scar.
Deep.
Clean.
The Saints stared in shock.
Even Cassie's expression betrayed surprise.
Nephis's eyes widened slightly.
She had not yet pushed the weapon to its limit.
She hadn't realized how thorough the enchantment truly was.
Anvil ignored their reactions.
He looked at the blade again.
'One more...?'
It took him a moment.
Then, using his own smithing ability and Aspect, Anvil recognized that the final enchantment required a condition.
'The blade is oriented around striking and drawing blood.'
An idea came to him.
'If the creator of this sword is as intelligent and skilled as these enchantments suggest, then...'
Anvil brought the edge against his thumb.
He drew blood.
His eyes narrowed.
Something touched his mind.
'A mind attack.'
He wiped the blood from his thumb.
The strange whispers disappeared.
Anvil stared at the weapon.
'This blade...'
The enchantments were superior.
The metal itself could have been better—
But considering the materials used, whoever had forged it had brought them frighteningly close to their absolute limit.
Overall...
Anvil of Valor considered the weapon for a single heartbeat.
"Exceptional."
The word was barely above a whisper.
'It's as good as my own.'
Another thought followed.
'Some parts are even better.'
Everyone's breath caught.
Their expressions shifted from curiosity to alarm.
Exceptional?
From Anvil of Valor?
The smiths looked stunned.
Not once had the King called their creations—even the greatest among them—anything more than usable.
The difference was...
Incredible.
For the moment, they did not even possess the presence of mind to feel jealous.
Anvil looked at Nephis.
"Who made this?"
His voice carried its usual authority and sharpness.
Nephis did not hesitate visibly.
Her eyes moved toward the blade.
Her expression remained cold.
Alert.
Composed.
As always.
Except when she was at the café.
But beneath that composure—
Fear crept into her heart.
'Orphany...'
Then—
'Master Sunless...'
"This sword was made by a—"
She paused.
"A Memory maker."
The hesitation caught everyone's attention.
Cassie stepped forward.
"King."
She gracefully drew his attention.
"The Memory was created by an independent Memory maker who lives in Bastion."
Everyone stared.
"Independent?" Morgan's eyes narrowed.
"Memory maker?" one of the smiths repeated.
Not merely a smith.
A Memory maker.
"Name?" Anvil demanded.
"Sunless," Cassie answered.
Anvil narrowed his eyes.
That was not a Saint he knew.
His gaze returned to the blade.
Cassie did not waver.
Nephis glanced toward her with a restrained expression.
'Calm down.'
Cassie's voice entered her mind.
'We can't hide his existence now. We'll have to handle this carefully.'
Nephis understood.
She simply didn't like it.
Swallowing her objections, she turned toward the King with a composed expression once more.
Anvil's attention remained on the sword.
Then—
"Bring him to me."
The others stiffened.
"At the end of this week. Morning."
Several heads snapped toward him.
The King wished to personally meet an ordinary, independent Memory maker?
Anvil did not care about their surprise.
He walked past them.
The sword flew through the air.
Nephis caught it.
Everyone stared after the departing Sovereign with rigid expressions.
Morgan slowly turned toward Nephis.
Her gaze settled on the blade.
"Just who the hell made it, little sister?"
Nephis did not answer.
Because now—
Master Sunless had come under the King of Valor's radar.
...
"I'm sorry..." Nephis said as she winced slightly.
Master Sunless stared at her with a blank expression.
"Yay!"
Orphany ran after something resembling a rabbit near the lake.
Sunless looked away from Nephis.
His jaw tightened.
Nephis noticed redness slowly spreading from his neck toward his face.
He glanced back carefully.
"So..." he began, his tone more guarded than anything she had ever heard from him before.
"The King of Swords wishes to see me?"
Nephis hesitated but nodded.
"Yes... Once again, I'm truly sorry, Master Sunless. It wasn't my intention. It's just that he saw the sword you made for me and asked. I had to give him a name, and now he wishes to see you."
Sunless stared at her for a moment.
He blinked.
Then looked somewhere off to the side.
"So what should I expect from this... meeting?"
There was something unusually careful about his expression.
Something about that made Nephis's chest tighten painfully.
"Well, he is calling you because of your sword..." she said. "So I believe you will be asked about your forging and enchanting skills?"
"...My skill?"
Nephis blinked at the strange question.
"Yes?"
Sunless blinked.
Then he nodded thoughtfully before taking a careful sip of his cold beverage.
He placed it back on the table.
A deep sigh escaped him.
Then his usual soft expression returned.
He smiled lightly.
"Is that so? Well, that's fine. I don't mind."
Nephis studied him carefully.
Her shoulders relaxed at the sight of his smile.
'He doesn't look mad...'
Even the redness on his neck had disappeared.
"Are you sure, Master Sunless?" she asked, still worried.
She hesitated.
"You said you value your privacy a lot that day..."
Sunless smiled and leaned back, tilting his head.
"It's fine. If you need me, though, I'll make time."
His smile deepened slightly.
"After all, I also said something."
A tiny grin formed on his face.
Nephis blinked.
Then remembered.
'I only let people close to me if they are close to my heart.'
Her cheeks suddenly grew warm.
Nephis leaned back and looked away for a moment, unable to stop the smile forming on her face.
Then—
"Papa!"
Orphany appeared, running toward them.
Sunless immediately turned to her.
"Hey there, Birdy. Did you find your prey today?"
"Yes!"
"Really? What is it?"
"A rabbit!"
Sunless raised an eyebrow.
"There are rabbits here?"
"Ahh—I don't know, but it had ears and hopped!"
"Hmm. Precisely. This calls for an archaeological research expedition come fortnight."
"Papa! Don't use big words!"
"Whatever the Birdy means~"
Orphany simply pouted in response.
Nephis couldn't help smiling.
A light exhale escaped her, dangerously close to a giggle.
The girl turned toward her with a bright smile.
"What were you two talking about?"
"Ahh, Pretty Miss needs to go somewhere thi—"
Sunless stopped.
He blinked.
Then turned toward Nephis.
"Ahh, my lady, do you think Birdy can come with us?"
Nephis blinked and tilted her head.
"Of course. She's more than welcome."
Sunless sighed in relief.
"Thank you. Aiko won't be here that day, and I won't leave Birdy alone, so this one has to come."
Not can't.
Won't.
That made Nephis smile.
"Are we going somewhere?"
Orphany looked between the two of them.
Sunless smiled.
"Well, Pretty Miss happened to invite us to that one place you've always wanted to go."
Orphany blinked.
"Where?"
Her head tilted.
Nephis smiled as Sunless struggled to contain his own.
"The big castle!"
Orphany's face lit up.
"The big castle?!"
"Yes!"
Sunless matched the child's excitement perfectly.
Orphany immediately looked at Nephis.
"Really?!"
Nephis leaned forward slightly.
"Really!"
Orphany beamed.
She ran around the small table and threw her arms around Nephis's waist.
Nephis received her without hesitation, smiling as she rested a hand on the girl's head.
"Thank you!"
Nephis couldn't help smiling wider.
Sunless looked at them for a moment.
Then—
"Birdy..."
Orphany looked toward him, her face still buried against Nephis's waist.
"You will not go on expedition trips while we're there. Is that clear?"
Orphany's lips parted.
"But it's a castle!"
"Exactly."
"But—"
"No buts."
Orphany opened her mouth again.
Stopped.
Then her face twisted into a small pout.
"Fine!"
Sunless's expression softened.
"Good girl."
"Meanie!" she huffed.
Sunless gasped dramatically.
"Excuse me?"
Nephis's smile widened slightly as she watched the two of them.
Soon, both joined her smile.
...
That evening, Nephis stayed for dinner.
They had just finished eating, and Sunless was washing the dishes.
"Master Sunless, may I help?"
Sunless looked over.
Nephis stood nearby with the remaining dishes from the table.
"Ahh, thank you. You can leave them there."
Nephis's eyes softened.
"Can I not help?"
Sunless stared at her for a moment.
Then smiled.
"The mighty Changing Star doing dishes in this little café?"
Nephis smiled a little more.
"Did you not say I didn't have to be any of that here?"
Sunless looked at her.
Then at the dishes.
"Fair enough. You can help with drying them."
Nephis smiled.
She picked up the cloth and accepted the first clean dish.
A few minutes passed.
Orphany had retreated to her room to play while Sunless and Nephis worked quietly beside one another.
Yet every so often...
Nephis glanced sideways at Sunless.
Not that he noticed.
As far as she believed.
"You know you can say it."
Nephis nearly jumped.
She turned toward him.
"Hmm?"
Sunless smiled in amusement.
"Whatever's on your mind, you can share it with me."
He continued washing the dish in his hands.
Nephis stared at him for a moment.
She considered the invitation.
Then nodded faintly to herself.
"I wanted to apologize."
Sunless paused for a moment before continuing to scrub.
"For what?"
"For disrupting your peace," she said softly.
This time—
Sunless stopped.
And he didn't continue.
Yet he didn't look at her either.
Nephis stared.
'He's mad, isn't he...?'
The thought hurt more than she wanted it to.
"Master Sunless, it truly wasn't my intention to bring trouble to you or—"
"My lady, can you please look after Birdy?"
Nephis froze.
'Is he... pushing me away?'
The thought cut through her.
"Master..."
Sunless turned toward her with a closed-eye smile.
"Birdy really likes it when you play with her before bed. I'd appreciate it if you could help."
Nephis didn't know what to say.
So she simply nodded.
She set down the dish and cloth.
Then took a step back.
She walked toward the hallway with her head lowered.
Halfway there, she still didn't know what to do.
Then—
"My lady."
Sunless called her.
Nephis immediately looked back.
Hopefully.
But Sunless didn't say anything.
He simply stepped forward until he reached the end of the hall.
Then he leaned against the wall.
His head rested lightly against its side.
A smile appeared on his face.
And he simply looked at her.
Fondly.
A moment passed.
Then another.
Nephis wasn't sure what to do beneath that gaze.
Her face gradually warmed.
Finally, Sunless spoke.
"You know..."
Nephis listened.
"I like this place. My café, I mean. And the people who visit it."
He smiled faintly.
"I don't have many regulars, but that's fine. Because the few I have? They come here daily because they feel safe here. Relaxed. And that's what I wanted to make."
His gaze briefly wandered around the humble home.
"A warm and peaceful place where people can rest and relax."
He paused.
"I never wanted a crowded café with a few dozen people. Just the ones who come here."
His smile softened.
"And that makes me happy because I'm doing something I like."
Nephis couldn't help smiling.
This man...
Despite everything, deep down, Master Sunless truly was a kind and humble man with desires so simple that most people would overlook him.
A terrible mistake.
Both as a person and as a craftsman, this man stood beyond most others.
Especially as a person.
"But..."
His tone changed.
Nephis's shoulders stiffened.
She felt it again.
That warm stream of gentle care and passion directed toward her.
Yet there was something about it so sincere that, for a moment, Nephis forgot to breathe.
"My peace isn't in these things. Well... not completely, anyway."
Sunless pushed himself away from the wall and stood straight.
"It's not this place either..."
He seemed lost in thought for a moment.
Then he smiled and looked at her.
"It's in my people."
Orphany.
Of course.
Nephis smiled gently.
Sunless's own smile brightened.
"The people I care about. When they're happy and they can smile, that's what makes me happy."
A gentle smile came to Nephis's lips.
But then—
Her back straightened.
Not in alarm.
Because Master Sunless was looking at her.
Not past her.
Not around her.
At her.
As if, at that moment, there was no one else there.
"M-Master Sunless?"
Sunless tilted his head.
His smile held such sincerity and tenderness that something in Nephis's chest tightened.
"Birdy isn't the only one who's my peace."
Nephis's breath caught in her throat.
"There is one more."
A lump formed in her throat.
Her cheeks reddened.
Sunless seemed ready to turn and walk away.
When—
"Who?"
The question escaped before Nephis could think.
Sunless looked at her.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then his soft smile became something sweeter.
He took one step backward without looking away.
His eyes remained fixed on hers.
Then he turned and stepped into the kitchen.
But before disappearing—
"Someone right in front of me."
Sunless returned to his work.
Nephis didn't move.
Her feet remained rooted to the floor.
There was more than heat in her chest now.
Warmth.
A very particular kind of warmth.
'His peace...'
The thought echoed through her mind.
"Pretty Miss?"
Orphany's voice came from her room.
Nephis blinked.
She turned.
"Huh? Yes?"
She didn't realize she was smiling.
A bright smile.
Soon, Sunless returned to his chores.
A few moments later, he heard hurried footsteps from down the hall.
Then giggles.
Sunless shook his head while continuing to wash the dishes, a small smile resting on his face.
However—
Some time later, when he was done, Sunless washed his hands.
He took a few steps before stopping.
His palms came to rest against the edge of the table.
His head lowered.
Long black hair cast a shadow across his face, leaving only the thin line of his lips visible.
For several moments, he remained completely still.
Then—
"The King of Swords I can handle..."
...
Back in Orphany's room, it had not been long since Nephis and Orphany started playing when the little girl suddenly asked a question.
Nephis entered Orphne's room still carrying the warmth in her chest.
'Someone right in front of me.'
The words refused to leave.
Neither did the way Master Sunless had looked at her when he said them.
His peace.
She was—
"Pretty Miss!"
Nephis blinked.
Orphne was already sitting on the floor beside a small collection of toys and papers, looking up at her expectantly.
"Are we playing?"
Nephis stared at her for another moment before quietly exhaling.
"Of course."
She walked over and sat beside the little girl.
Orphne immediately pushed several sheets of paper toward her.
"I was drawing!"
"Really? What?"
There were several colorful drawings scattered across the floor.
A rabbit.
Or, at least, something Nephis assumed was supposed to be a rabbit.
A large tree next to the café.
Orphne picked up a crayon and went back to drawing.
For several minutes, the room remained peaceful.
Nephis occasionally helped her choose colors while Orphne happily talked about whatever entered her mind.
Eventually—
"Pretty Miss?"
"Hm?"
"Why are we going to the big castle?"
Nephis glanced toward her.
"Your Papa has to meet someone."
Orphne stopped coloring.
"Who?"
"The King of Swords."
The girl's eyebrows scrunched together.
"The big king?"
Nephis smiled at the name but nodded.
"The big king."
Orphne thought about that for several seconds.
Then—
"Isn't he your Papa too?"
Nephis's hand stopped.
Her expression changed almost imperceptibly.
"No."
The answer came faster than she intended.
Orphne blinked.
Nephis blinked before she softened her voice.
"No. He's not my father."
"Oh."
Orphne tilted her head.
"But you live in his castle."
"I do."
"And he's old."
Nephis stared at her as amusement returned.
"...Yes."
"And he tells people what to do."
"That is also true."
Orphne's confusion only deepened.
Nephis almost smiled.
"My actual father was someone else. The King of Swords was his friend."
"Ohhh."
Understanding appeared on Orphne's face.
Then disappeared again.
"So..."
She stared at the ceiling.
"He is your Papa's friend."
"Yes."
"And now you live with him."
"Yes."
"And he's..." Orphne's little face twisted as she struggled to find the correct word. "Your... grown-up person?"
Nephis's lips twitched.
"My grown-up person?"
Orphne nodded seriously.
"Like when Papa says I need a grown-up."
Nephis could no longer suppress the faint smile that appeared.
"I'm a little too old to need a guardian, Orphne."
"Guardian!"
Orphne pointed at her excitedly.
"That word!"
Nephis quietly smiled more.
"But yes. I suppose if it makes it easier to understand, you can think of him as something similar."
Orphne nodded several times.
"Okay."
She went back to coloring.
Nephis did the same.
Then Orphne froze.
Her crayon stopped in the middle of the page.
She slowly looked toward Nephis.
"So Papa is going to meet your guardian grown-up?"
Nephis blinked.
"Yes."
Orphne stared at her.
Then—
Her entire face lit up.
"Pretty Miss!"
Nephis immediately became suspicious.
"What?"
Orphne leaned closer.
"Are you and Papa together now?"
Nephis froze.
Completely.
"...What?"
Orphne continued smiling.
"You and Papa!"
"No."
The answer came much too quickly.
Nephis cleared her throat.
"No. Why would you think that?"
Orphne's eyebrows rose.
"But Papa is meeting your grown-up."
"Yes."
"So..."
Orphne looked at her as though the answer was obvious.
"So you're together."
Nephis stared at the child in bewilderment.
"No, Orphne. Those two things don't necessarily mean the same thing."
"They do in Papa's books."
Nephis's eyes narrowed.
"...What books?"
"The stories!"
Orphne happily dropped her crayon and turned fully toward her.
"Sometimes Papa reads me stories before bed."
Nephis nodded slowly, she already knew that.
"And sometimes the Papa and Mama aren't Papa and Mama yet."
Nephis's lips parted.
Orphne continued, completely unaware of the damage she was causing.
"They like each other first, then they go places together."
Nephis remained very still.
"...I see."
"And then sometimes the Mama brings the Papa to meet her Papa!"
Nephis stopped breathing.
Something clicked.
A memory from earlier that afternoon surfaced in her mind.
Master Sunless staring at her.
Blankly.
His jaw tightening.
The strange stiffness in his shoulders.
Then—
The red slowly climbing from his neck toward his face.
'So...'
His unusually careful voice.
'The King of Swords wishes to see me?'
Nephis's eyes widened.
Then another piece fell into place.
She had apologized. Told him the King wanted to meet him, but she had not immediately mentioned the sword.
She had simply—
Nephis's face began to heat.
'No.'
She remembered how guarded his expression had been.
How carefully he had asked:
'So what should I expect from this... meeting?'
And then—
When she finally explained the sword—
'...My skill?'
The confusion.
The pause.
The deep sigh afterward.
And then his entire demeanor relaxing.
'Is that so?'
Nephis's cheeks burned.
"No."
Orphne tilted her head.
"Pretty Miss?"
Nephis did not respond.
Master Sunless had misunderstood.
He had thought—
She had asked him to meet—
Her father.
Or, at the very least, the man standing closest to that position in her life.
And he had been blushing.
Actually blushing.
Nephis covered part of her face with one hand.
'What was I thinking?!"
She blushed.
...
For several seconds, he did not move.
Then his shoulders remained stiff.
His head lowered.
"The king of swords I can handle... but..."
One hand rose to cover his eyes.
"...My lady."
A faint red had once again appeared across his face.
He remained like that for another moment.
Then sighed.
"You really need to work on your wording."
From somewhere down the hall—
Orphne's laughter rang out.
A second, quieter laugh followed.
Sunless slowly lowered his hand.
The embarrassment remained.
But so did the small smile that appeared on his face.
...
The Dream Realm remained a mystery to most beings even now.
Yet one fact was known.
Since the end of the Doom War, it had been absorbing the other Realms, slowly making them part of its own geography.
This included the Divine Realms of the Great Gods.
Yet much of its lands remained uncharted.
Beyond the Stormsea, Bastion, Ravenheart, and Godgrave were territories humanity had never reached.
The Hollow Mountains alone formed an almost impassable barrier, crawling with Transcendent abominations at the weakest, with Great and even Cursed creatures dwelling among them.
Crossing them was nearly impossible.
Very little was known about what existed beyond.
The three Sovereigns knew more.
They wished to take control of the Nightmare Desert—or, more precisely, cross it and enter the Great Pyramid.
Yet the Nightmare Desert itself crawled with armies of Great and Cursed abominations, condemned to fight endlessly within lands touched by Death itself.
Another known region was the Forgotten Shore, where countless people had once been trapped before Changing Star forged her legend.
But beyond these places?
Humanity knew almost nothing.
For ordinary beings, of course.
Far north of the Forgotten Shore lay another land.
A territory crawling with Great abominations in abundance.
A place where humanity could never hope to exist, much less survive.
No one could.
Well...
Except—
"AHHHH!"
The horrific scream of a Great Devil tore through the wilderness.
The creature thrashed against the ground.
Something severed one of its four legs.
It collapsed sideways.
Dozens of golden threads wrapped around its neck.
More sliced deeply into its abdomen.
Others buried themselves into its throat as disgusting blood poured from its wounds.
For a moment, the enormous creature was suspended in the air.
Then the threads tightened.
Its neck was severed halfway through.
Suddenly—
A figure appeared in a burst of speed, landing elegantly upon the ground.
The Heir of Weaver.
He stood silently after killing yet another abomination.
Only the distant echoes of other creatures moving through the wilderness disturbed the silence.
Then—
"Strange."
A new voice appeared.
Unbothered, the Heir of Weaver turned.
A figure stood atop a small cliff, looking down at him.
A demonic mask concealed his face.
It resembled the masks worn by the Heir of Weaver and the Lord of Shadows.
Yet it was distinctly different from both.
The masked man spoke.
"I didn't know Weaver's sorcery could be used for combat."
The Heir of Weaver did not immediately answer.
He simply looked away.
Heavy footsteps suddenly thundered across the land.
A Great Beast charged toward them.
Neither being looked at it.
"Weaving? For combat?"
The Heir repeated the words slowly.
Almost softly.
As though the approaching Great Beast did not exist.
"No."
Hundreds of golden threads appeared.
They shot through the air.
The Great Beast was suddenly lifted from the ground, its enormous body tangled within them.
Threads sliced through flesh.
Across its limbs.
Its abdomen.
Its throat.
Its most vital areas.
The creature crashed to the ground.
Dead.
"This is no sorcery."
The Heir of Weaver glanced over his shoulder before looking back.
"In fact, it has been quite some time since I practiced Weaving myself."
Suddenly—
One.
Ten.
A hundred.
A thousand.
Hundreds of thousands.
Golden threads appeared around him, forming an immense cocoon.
Then—
They dissolved into golden sparks.
The Heir of Weaver disappeared.
Step.
"Weaver was not a combatant at their core."
Step.
"But neither were they weak."
Step.
"As a Divine Titan standing alongside the Great Gods and Daemons..."
Step.
"And as the Daemon possessing the Domain of Fate..."
Step.
"Weaver created a battle art around threads themselves."
The Heir of Weaver slowly ascended the steps before him.
"Weaver's sorcery is different from Weaver's battle art."
He reached the top.
Then took his throne once again.
Across from him, upon the black marble floor, the other masked man appeared.
He merely stared.
The Heir of Weaver looked upward.
Several hundred thousand golden threads manifested again.
"Weaving is..."
He paused.
"Different."
Another pause.
"Far too different from these things."
The masked man studied the threads.
"The threads... they don't possess names?"
"They do," the Heir of Weaver answered.
"Nothing can exist without True Names."
He paused.
"What do you know of the first sorcery?"
The other man looked at him.
Silence followed.
Then—
"Oh, great Keeper of Fate. Can you not know everything and anything?"
A moment of silence.
"...I can."
The masked man continued staring at him.
"Then you must know what I know as well?"
The Heir of Weaver did not immediately answer.
"I do..."
The masked man remained silent.
Then the Heir of Weaver finally broke the silence.
"The first sorcery was the Sorcery of Names."
His gaze wandered somewhere distant.
"When the Great Gods first appeared and the Divine Realms came to be, the Gods used the Sorcery of Names. Anything and everything must possess a name."
"The sorcery called Shaping," the masked man said.
The Heir of Weaver waited.
"Yet Shaping possessed a flaw."
He looked toward the endless darkness.
"It was not lasting."
The masked man continued.
"Those who used Shaping had to learn and utter the True Names of many things. The task was taxing and placed enormous strain upon the body and soul."
Another pause.
"Hence, some Gods and Daemons created their own forms of sorcery," the Heir of Weaver answered.
"The Sorcery of Names?"
"The one created by the Daemon of Desire."
The Heir continued.
"An art allowing encoded True Names to persist. To exist without being invoked through spoken words alone."
He leaned back.
"A form that could last."
Silence.
"The youngest Daemon created his own as well. The Gods possessed their own methods."
His voice remained calm.
"Either way, no matter who they were—even Gods and Daemons—they invoked what already existed by calling upon its True Name."
He paused.
"Their minds, souls, bodies, and existence itself had to bear the strain."
"Weaver created something different?" the masked man asked.
Suddenly—
Millions of golden threads appeared overhead.
The Transcendent Titans emerged once more.
Yet—
"Weaver was a being who shrouded themselves in mysteries."
The Heir of Weaver rose from his throne.
"And was called the Master of Lies."
The enormous creatures suddenly dissolved.
Their bodies became threads.
The threads twisted.
Knotted.
Changed.
Then—
They became enormous Vile Birds.
The masked man stared.
"Weaver's creations possess no permanent form or shape. They can become whatever their creator wills them to become."
The masked man considered the enormous creatures.
"To turn Weaver's creations into... Vile Birds."
A pause.
"How ironic."
There were very few beings who could understand why.
The Heir of Weaver did not dignify the comment with an answer.
The Transcendent Titans settled upon immense constructions made from hundreds of golden strings woven throughout the darkness.
"The threads used for combat are different."
The Heir raised one hand.
A single golden string floated above his palm.
"Each is merely that."
"A string made from essence."
He closed his fingers slightly.
"Each is anchored to reality through one True Name. They are fundamentally identical. There are no enchantments within them."
His hand lowered.
"They exist solely for combat."
More threads appeared.
"The more one can hold in existence, the stronger the True Name bestowed upon them becomes, making them increasingly powerful."
His gaze shifted toward the masked man.
"Provided their creator possesses the concentration required to use them effectively rather than simply wasting essence."
The masked man waited.
"And Weaver's sorcery is different?"
The enormous birds remained seated upon their woven perches.
The Heir of Weaver turned.
He returned to his throne.
"Weaving is more than strings of essence floating through the air."
The masked man looked upward.
"The Gods remained restricted by their own creation."
The Heir continued.
"All other forms of sorcery amounted to invoking something that already existed—whether a being, an element, an effect, or a concept—and binding it to one's will through its True Name."
The masked man did not interrupt.
"However..."
The Heir raised his hand.
Five golden threads appeared.
One connected to each fingertip.
"The firstborn of the Unknown did something truly magnificent."
His fingers moved.
"They created the greatest form of sorcery."
The five threads began to intertwine.
"All other sorcery invokes what already exists and commands it."
The threads crossed.
Knotted.
Separated.
"But Weaving does not care what already exists."
More threads appeared.
"If one invokes the True Names of flame and frost together through Shaping—whether through spoken words or written runes—the invocation will fail."
The masked man watched the threads intertwine.
Something strange began to form.
Unfinished.
Changing constantly.
"Weaving does not care what already exists."
The knots tightened.
The complexity multiplied.
Five threads became nearly a hundred.
"Nor does it care what laws reality originally possessed."
The Heir's fingers continued moving.
"It does not invoke the True Names of existing things."
More knots.
More patterns.
"Weaver uses their own essence."
His hands shifted.
"Turns it into threads."
The construction expanded.
"And knots those threads into reality."
The Heir folded his hands.
The woven construct floated forward.
"Until those knots—which appear meaningless to an ordinary being—become logic imposed upon reality itself."
The masked man studied the strange pattern.
It was mesmerizing.
There was no fixed design.
No simple sequence.
The constantly shifting collection of knots could not be followed by sight alone.
The Heir of Weaver manifested a small dagger.
He threw it.
Precisely when it reached the correct point—
The enchantment collapsed into the weapon.
The Transcendent dagger continued through the air.
The masked man caught it effortlessly.
He poured essence into the weapon.
The enchantment sharpened it.
Very little essence was required.
Very little control.
The masked man looked toward the Heir of Weaver.
"The combat threads are meaningless on their own."
The Heir raised his hand.
Several strings appeared again.
"They simply exist, floating and waiting to be commanded by their creator."
His fingers closed.
"However, Weaving itself commands."
The threads vanished.
"It does not care what exists."
A pause.
"It does not care what cannot exist."
His voice remained quiet.
"It does not care whether flame and frost should be incapable of existing as one."
The masked man remained still.
"Weaving creates logic."
The Heir looked at him.
"And reality obeys."
Silence.
"The Great Gods and Daemons were mighty. Their wills and strength were immeasurable. They had little reason to create something more."
He leaned back.
"They simply found different methods of forcing existence to obey their desires."
A faint pause.
"But Weaver..."
The golden threads above shifted.
"Weaver did not care to rely upon their own strength to pave the way."
The Heir's masked face tilted slightly.
"After all..."
"Why should the Daemon of Fate rely upon existence obeying their will..."
"...when they could reshape reality itself?"
The masked man looked up.
"Still."
The Heir waited.
"Nothing can exist without a name."
The masked man's gaze returned to him.
"Not even concepts."
A pause.
"So how does the logic Weaver creates maintain its existence when the concepts of existence itself oppose it?"
The Heir of Weaver remained silent for a moment.
Then—
"Flame and frost can be woven together to exist within the same Memory."
His hand rose.
"One can touch flame and write coldness into it."
A golden thread curled around his finger.
"The flame will freeze whatever approaches."
Another thread appeared.
"One can touch a boulder and make it weightless."
He lowered his hand.
"The limits are not determined by what reality already is."
His voice grew quieter.
"They are determined by what the creator is intelligent enough to create."
What answered Shaping?
Instinct?
Concept?
Perhaps something else entirely?
Who knew?
Something responded when True Names were invoked.
Something that could accept or reject the call.
"That is the part which places Weaving above all other sorcery."
The Heir of Weaver spoke again.
"Weaver weaves logic into existence."
Golden threads drifted through the darkness.
"A few hundred knots can mean one thing."
More appeared.
"Another few hundred can mean something entirely different."
He looked toward them.
"Yet they are merely essence woven into reality."
A pause.
"Still..."
The atmosphere subtly changed.
"The mightiest part of Weaving comes later."
The masked man remained silent.
"A construct formed from a being's essence has become logic."
The Heir's voice echoed through the hall.
"However, what makes it truly a weave..."
Silence.
"...is that its creator can bestow upon it..."
The golden threads trembled.
"...its own True Name."
The words echoed despite the seemingly endless hall.
The masked man's composure did not change.
"To bestow a True Name?"
He looked toward the Heir.
"Is that not what Fate contains?"
Silence.
"You are saying..."
His voice slowed.
"Weaver found a way to do something even the Great Gods could not?"
"No."
The Heir of Weaver rejected the claim immediately.
Something about his calm, aloof presence changed.
Sharpened.
The golden threads became still.
"They created it."
"Still..."
The masked one spoke.
"To name something."
A pause.
"Is that not what the tapestry of Fate does?"
"It is."
The Heir of Weaver rested against his throne.
"The tapestry is vast."
Silence.
"Infinite."
Another pause.
"And cruel."
The masked man watched him.
"Infinite possibilities exist within it. Anything. Everything."
Golden threads drifted lazily through the darkness.
"It does not matter what Gods or mortals wish."
The Heir's voice remained calm.
"Before Fate..."
A thread curled around his finger.
"...a Great God is as insignificant as a mortal."
The masked man said nothing.
"When Weaver studied the tapestry of Fate, they used it as the fundamental concept of their sorcery."
A second thread appeared.
"Flame may reject frost."
A third.
"Frost may reject flame."
The threads intertwined.
"But neither stands above Fate."
...
"The depths of Weaving cannot truly be explained through words."
The threads vanished.
"It requires insight."
A pause.
"Instinct."
Another.
"Understanding."
The masked man waited.
"However, when it comes to bestowing a True Name, the simplest explanation is this..."
The Heir raised one hand.
"A logic woven into reality eventually becomes something separate."
His fingers slowly closed.
"An existence of its own."
Silence.
"And once it becomes an existence..."
His masked face tilted.
"...its creator can weave a True Name for it."
A golden thread formed.
"Anchor it."
The thread became still.
"And reality acknowledges its existence."
...
"That is Weaving."
The masked man remained silent.
Then—
"So even Weaving stands beneath Fate?"
The Heir looked at him.
"What does not?"
...
"The Great Gods."
A thread appeared.
"The Daemons."
Another.
"The Void."
Another.
"The abominations within it."
More.
"All exist beneath Fate."
The threads stretched outward.
"Weaving does as well."
Silence.
"Yet..."
The Heir looked toward the countless strings.
"It can perhaps be called the closest thing to freedom."
The masked man's head tilted slightly.
"Fate itself willed it free from reality's restrictions."
The golden threads crossed.
A tapestry began to form.
"So Weaving can be called a tapestry of its own."
A pause.
"Much like Fate."
The Heir's voice carried the faintest trace of amusement.
"Quite fitting for something created by the Daemon of Fate."
...
The masked man did not speak for some time.
Then—
"Was Weaver beneath Fate as well?"
The battle threads disappeared.
The Heir lowered his gaze.
"Yes."
Silence.
"And no."
The masked man waited.
The Heir looked into the distance.
"Weaver possessed the Domain of Fate."
A pause.
"So, like any other Divine being, they should have possessed authority over the concept they ruled."
The darkness remained still.
"Yet the Great Gods created the concepts they ruled."
His head tilted slightly.
"And Fate..."
"...came before the Gods."
The masked man looked at him.
"So could Fate exist before the Daemon possessing its Domain was born?"
...
"Could it not?"
The masked man answered.
"Fate stands above time."
Silence.
"Does it care what came before..."
"...or after?"
The Heir remained motionless.
Then—
"The Daemons were born from the Unknown."
A faint sigh escaped him.
"Oh well."
"Gods."
"Daemons."
"Their existence is merely another paradox."
...
"So Weaver could control Fate."
The masked man paused.
"Or couldn't?"
The Heir slowly turned toward him.
"Were we not discussing Weaving?"
...
The masked man stared.
"Let us leave Fate and its paradoxes for another time."
Another silence.
Then the masked man accepted the answer.
His gaze rose toward the remaining golden threads.
"How complex is it?"
"Weaving?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"Oh, great Keeper of Fate..."
The masked man's voice carried faint amusement again.
"Can you..."
"...or can you not..."
"...match Weaver in their Weaving?"
The Heir did not answer.
Silence stretched through the hall.
Until—
"Match Weaver?"
His voice was eerily calm.
"No."
The masked man remained still.
"I cannot."
Another pause.
"No one can."
...
"Weaver's sorcery is unique."
The Heir raised one hand.
"It can only be practiced by those bestowed with one of Weaver's creations."
The masked man listened.
"Two such beings were the Grand Priests of the Nightmare Spell."
The golden threads shifted.
"They were bestowed powers that allowed them to create things capable of binding reality itself."
A pause.
"And yet..."
The Heir lowered his hand.
"Very few ever truly learned Weaving."
"Even those who tried the hardest understood little more than its foundations."
"They altered Memories that already existed."
"Changed established weaves."
"Learned fragments."
Silence.
"Even the two Grand Priests of the Nightmare Spell..."
His voice grew quieter.
"...chosen by the Daemon of Fate personally..."
"...could do very little compared to Weaver."
"They lacked authority?" the masked man asked.
The answer came immediately.
"They lacked understanding."
...
...
The silence remained.
Then the Heir raised his hand.
Five golden threads appeared.
"Consider a weave."
They drifted slowly beside one another.
"A few hundred threads..."
The five separated.
"...can become more than a million knots."
The masked man watched.
"Every knot must be traced."
The threads moved.
"Every connection understood."
A knot formed.
"And if even one is wrong..."
The Heir pinched the five threads between a black-gloved thumb and forefinger.
"...the entire construct can collapse."
Silence.
"It is not merely the knots that require concentration."
He slowly moved his fingers.
"The threads themselves possess properties."
"Strength."
"Length."
"Weight."
"Essence."
"Position."
"How one logic overlaps another."
"How one concept interacts with the next."
The five strings trembled.
"A precise balance must be maintained."
The Heir seemed to consider his next words.
"The mental concentration required can be..."
...
He stopped.
For once, even the Keeper of Fate seemed unable to find an adequate description.
"...beyond words to imagine."
His fingers parted.
The threads loosened.
"And yet..."
One of the lower threads moved.
Barely.
Not even a fraction visible to mortal eyes.
Perhaps only several atoms.
The Heir pinched it again.
"Every thread must still be touched at precisely the correct point."
The masked man watched.
"Because at this stage..."
The Heir released it.
"...these are meaningless strings of essence waiting to become a proper concept beneath their creator's hands."
The thread shifted.
The structure trembled.
Then—
Collapsed.
All five strings disappeared.
The partially formed weave followed them.
"If the placement is wrong..."
Silence.
"...the logic meant to impose itself upon reality falls apart."
The masked man looked at the empty space.
The Heir continued.
"Even in ancient times..."
"When the High Priests themselves left fragments of knowledge to those learning the most basic forms of Weaving..."
"...most failed."
A pause.
"Understanding how threads and knots became logic was difficult enough."
"But Weaver required more than precise methods."
The Heir's gaze sharpened.
"Weaving requires the mind capable of understanding those methods."
...
The masked man considered his words.
Then—
"Do you believe anyone remains?"
The Heir looked at him.
"In these Realms."
Silence.
"Someone capable of truly learning Weaving."
Another pause.
"Someone second only to Weaver."
The masked man's head tilted.
"Or perhaps..."
"...someone capable of coming close to the Daemon of Fate?"
The Heir considered the question.
His gaze rose.
"Second to Weaver..."
A strange sound escaped him.
"Huh."
Silence.
"The Firstborn of the Unknown could control hundreds of millions..."
A pause.
"...perhaps billions of threads."
The masked man did not interrupt.
"And the knots?"
The Heir's voice grew distant.
"Hundreds of trillions."
...
"Perhaps more."
Silence.
"Compared to Weaver..."
The Heir looked at his own hand.
"Their priests could hardly keep track of a few thousand threads."
His fingers closed.
"Much less the exponentially greater number of knots forming the actual logic."
"So no?"
The Heir looked toward him.
"Ahh..."
A thoughtful sigh.
"Perhaps not."
Another pause.
"I can know everything."
The masked man watched him.
"But I have not looked into everything."
...
"Not yet, at least."
The Heir turned toward him.
"I can know what has happened."
A golden thread appeared.
"What is happening."
Another.
"And what will happen."
A third.
"But the cost of reading the tapestry..."
The three threads disappeared.
"...is too great."
Silence.
"Even for me."
A pause.
"At least for now."
Then his attention settled fully upon the masked man.
"However..."
The masked man became still.
"You."
Silence.
"You know all truths."
The Heir tilted his head.
"Do you not?"
The masked man did not immediately respond.
...
"I do."
His gaze lowered.
"However..."
Silence.
"I cannot bear to know every vile truth of this existence."
His fingers slowly tightened.
"All that knowledge..."
A pause.
"All of it."
He looked toward the Heir.
"You must understand better than most what I mean."
The Heir regarded him.
...
"I do."
Silence returned.
Then—
"As for being second to Weaver..."
The Heir raised his head.
"I am not."
The masked man watched him.
"To be second to Weaver..."
A faint note of disdain entered his voice.
"...I suppose one would not need much."
"The High Priests of the Nightmare Spell left rather unsightly marks upon that position."
A pause.
"I surpassed them long ago."
...
Silence.
Then—
"Do you think someone can do it?"
The Heir looked at him.
"Do you think someone can reach a level close to the Daemon of Fate?"
The Heir looked upward.
"Ahh..."
A thoughtful sigh escaped him.
"A height in the sorcery of Weaving surpassed only by its creator?"
Silence.
"I suppose it is not impossible."
The masked man waited.
"But that would require more than Weaving."
A pause.
"More than power."
The Heir's gaze lowered.
"Weaving is not about might."
...
"It is about the mind."
...
At that very moment—
Whether the Heir of Weaver knew or not did not matter.
Far away...
In the calm, tense night of Bastion—
A Memory maker stood within his forge.
Master Sunless moved.
Golden threads danced around him.
His hands moved with mesmerizing precision.
Several threads were caught simultaneously between his fingers.
Others twisted through the air according to his will.
Hundreds became thousands.
Thousands became tens of thousands.
Thought upon thought.
String upon string.
Knot upon knot.
The sight was enough to make even a Divine being crave the ability to understand what they were witnessing.
Reality itself began accepting the logic being written into it.
"The mental concentration required will always be the greatest obstacle."
The voice of the Heir of Weaver echoed elsewhere.
More threads appeared around Master Sunless.
Cuts opened across his body.
Thin crimson droplets struck the floor of the forge.
"If I had to place a number upon it..."
The Heir calmly raised his hand.
"...I would say one million threads."
Five hundred thousand golden threads surrounded Master Sunless.
His hands moved faster.
"If someone could maintain more than one million threads of Weaving..."
Six hundred thousand.
The dance intensified.
"...then I would acknowledge them as second only to Weaver in this art."
Seven hundred thousand.
The masked man remained silent.
The Heir continued.
"I would also acknowledge such a being..."
Eight hundred thousand.
"...as more worthy of Weaver's lineage than myself."
Master Sunless's hands moved at speeds only an Ascended being could hope to follow.
More cuts appeared.
Blood slid down his torso.
Nine hundred thousand.
"At such a height..."
The Heir's voice became quieter.
"...one could begin creating enchantments comparable to those of the Nightmare Spell itself."
Nine hundred and fifty thousand.
Master Sunless's breathing grew heavier.
"And even then..."
The Heir looked toward the masked man.
"...one does not need to be important to the tapestry of Fate to achieve it."
Nine hundred and eighty thousand.
"But what kind of madman..."
Nine hundred and ninety thousand.
"...would push themselves so far..."
Nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand.
"...for an enchantment they could simply rely upon the Spell to provide?"
One million.
The forge became still.
Master Sunless stopped.
His chest rose and fell heavily.
Blood ran down his body from shallow cuts.
His hands were stained crimson.
Around him—
A world of golden strings remained suspended in the air.
One million threads.
Sunless stared at them.
...
"Not enough."
Elsewhere—
The Heir of Weaver spoke quietly.
"No mortal could desire something enough to reach such a level."
...
Master Sunless tilted his head.
"Good for an outline."
A small smile appeared.
"I'll need more."
He tapped his foot once.
A tile trembled.
Then flew upward.
It unfolded in the air.
Shimmering runes appeared across its surface.
Pandora's Box.
Number Seven.
Sunless looked at the million-thread weave.
"To make a sword worthy of my lady..."
He considered it.
"I'll need more."
A pause.
"Seven million."
His brow furrowed.
Then—
"No."
A faint smile.
"Nine million."
His hands rose.
For some reason—
His eyes softened.
"Your True Name..."
Threads flowed from his fingers.
Unlike before, his movements became gentle.
Almost tender.
He wove them carefully.
Then released them into the unfinished enchantment.
"Changing Star."
The weave glowed.
Then—
Every thread rushed toward Pandora's Box.
The immense construction vanished into it.
The tile folded.
Once.
Twice.
Until Pandora's Box became small once more.
Sunless caught it.
Why waste mental capacity maintaining millions of threads continuously when he could simply be intelligent enough to create a Memory designed to preserve unfinished work?
Pandora's Box was created precisely for that purpose.
The concept itself was not particularly rare.
Storage Memories intended for food and other perishables often possessed spaces where time did not pass.
But Pandora's Box possessed far stricter limitations.
Only the creator's essence could be stored within it.
Essence.
Nothing more.
That made it perfect for Sunless.
He could preserve unfinished weaves without continuously maintaining them himself.
Sunless smiled at the tile.
Then—
"Ahh~"
A tired sigh escaped him.
"If I'm going to make a Soul-Bound Memory capable of anchoring something to the soul..."
He grimaced faintly as one of his wounds stung.
"...I'll need more than enchantments."
His gaze returned to Pandora's Box.
"Soul-Bound Memories don't usually possess many enchantments because they're bound directly to the soul."
He thought quietly.
"The essence becomes more like an Attribute tied to the soul itself."
A pause.
"If I'm going to make something useful..."
His eyes narrowed.
"...then the enchantments need to align with her fighting style."
He lifted a bloodied hand.
"Shaping and things like that won't be useful."
Another pause.
"I need to make something suited specifically to her Attributes."
Some of his hair fell across his eyes.
Sunless raised a hand to brush it aside—
Then stopped.
His fingers were covered in blood.
He sighed.
Walking toward the forge, he dipped his hands into the water.
Crimson dispersed through it.
Sunless washed the blood away.
Then pushed his long, majestic hair back.
Silence.
A smile appeared.
"Oh well."
His eyes returned to Pandora's Box.
"That just means I have more work to do."
...
"That, then..."
The masked man's voice returned.
"...would truly be a shame."
The Heir of Weaver looked toward him.
"A shame?"
"If a man that capable appeared within these Realms..."
The masked man paused.
"...it would truly be a shame if he did not possess Weaver's lineage."
The Heir stared at him.
For several moments—
Nothing.
Then he rose from his throne.
The Vile Birds perched above shimmered.
Their enormous bodies dissolved into streaks of gold.
A wave of folded threads rushed toward the Heir's palm.
A staff manifested in his hand.
Seven golden rings rested upon its head, each composed of innumerable woven threads.
The Heir struck its base against the ground.
The over ten million golden combat threads froze.
...
A ripple moved through the misty walls.
The threads obeyed his will.
Millions condensed.
Knots appeared.
The pattern became incomprehensibly complex as the combat strings became weaves.
"At best..."
The Heir spoke.
"...a million threads."
More condensed.
"Perhaps a few million."
The masked man watched.
"For a mortal..."
A pause.
"...that is extraordinary."
The threads continued weaving.
"The pinnacle of natural intelligence honed through years of relentless work."
His fingers moved.
"But for me?"
The weave became something frightening.
"A million..."
Another knot.
"...or a few million..."
Another.
"...is nothing."
Silence.
The Heir raised his hand.
"I bestow upon you..."
The threads trembled.
"...a True Name."
Something changed.
The True Name concealed itself within the weave.
The enchantment stabilized.
Then—
It shot toward the staff.
The masked man watched calmly.
The Heir of Weaver had demonstrated Weaving worthy of his title.
...
"Fascinating."
The single word escaped him.
Perhaps it was the only appropriate one.
The Heir released the staff.
It dissolved into threads.
The golden strings rose once more.
They twisted.
Expanded.
And the Transcendent Titans returned.
The Heir looked toward the masked man.
"You ask all of this..."
A pause.
"...despite knowing it already."
The masked man stared at him.
Then turned.
He began walking toward one of the distant thrones.
"I suppose I do."
Step.
"What can I say?"
Step.
"Sometimes..."
He stopped.
"...I simply wish to speak of what I know..."
Silence.
"...as though I had never known it at all."
The Heir watched him.
Then turned toward his own throne.
"I suppose that is fair."
He sat.
"After all..."
His hands rested upon the throne.
"...there are things I know that even I wish I had never learned."
The masked man stopped.
"Such is the nature of our existence."
...
The Heir looked toward him.
"But you..."
Silence.
"You bear knowledge even I would not wish to possess."
The masked man did not answer.
He reached a throne at the far right of the hall.
On the same side as the Heir of Weaver.
He sat.
An elbow settled upon the armrest.
One hand rested against his face.
His posture became almost solemn.
The Heir watched him.
"Tell me."
...
"Are you still plagued by what you know?"
No answer.
The masked man stared downward.
The darkness around him thickened.
Transcendent might slowly filled the hall.
The Heir's voice broke the silence.
"Oh, great one, the one cursed by Truth..."
The masked man raised his gaze.
...
"The Bane of Ariel, The Daemon of Dread."