《The Foulest Deeds [A LITRPG/Reincarnation Fantasy]》


 Chapter One: Gacha Reward

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter One: Gacha Reward</h2>


    <hr>


    John''s hands were covered in blood, so too was the entirety of his body and the hallway around him. The blaring red lights, which fluctuated in intensity, turned the hallway into a cruel mimicry of a blood vessel. The alarms of the ship echoed through the empty corridors, their sound mingling with the grotesque stillness of the scene. Dead bodies lay sprawled across the floor, silent witnesses to the carnage, but amidst it all, there stood one lone figure-John. His focus was entirely on the spinning wheel before him.


    His eyes were fixed on the panel of light, the small mystical display spinning, spinning, as if it held the key to something more important than the nightmare unfolding around him. The blood pooling at his feet was an afterthought, something outside his world of focus, a silent testament to the chaos he had coursed. His gaze never wavered from the wheel, as if any moment could hold the promise of salvation -or doom.


    Still, he could feel the blood on his skin. It slithered down from his forearm, clung to his wrist, trickled over his palm, and pooled at the tip of his fingers, waiting. The weight of it was suffocating, a visceral reminder of what had transpired. But John didn''t allow himself to look down. He couldn''t. Not yet.


    Then, just as the wheel slowed to a crawl, a single drop of blood fell from his fingertip. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, his breath steady but his heart racing. In that brief, suspended moment, the hum of the system seemed to resonate through his body, as if to confirm his fate. The air around him pulsed with static, his body tingling with anticipation.


    Buzz.


    The sound shot through him like an electric shock. His eyes snapped open. The wheel had stopped.


    He didn''t dare glance at the prize it had chosen for him. The blood on his skin seemed to thicken, to dry and stain him further, but it was nothing compared to the weight of what was to come.


    He could not hide from the result.


    Seedling! Congratulations


    Although unlucky you may seem, your luck has proven itself. You have won the top prize of the draw


    Reward: Ultimate Integration


    (Rank: Diamond +)


    Do you wish to use it?


    Yes/No


    John Stared at the reward, his eyes tearing up, his heart a steam engine, his mind a wave of raging emotions, What have I done?


    ¡°Why?¡± He asked, his voice a whisper, but he knew the reason, his focus stripped away, then, his eyes finally wandered the hallway, and he saw, saw what his greed for more success and life had caused.


    Acquaintances littered the hallway like broken puppets. Among them, he spotted the body of Phoenix-the Korean idol he had flirted with just hours earlier. She had been a prominent member of the expedition to the new city on Mars. His gaze searched for her face, but there was nothing left-only brain matter, splintered bone, and a pool of crimson blood. John gagged, his heart clenched, and he collapsed to his knees, weak and trembling. The ship seemed to spin around him as he shut his eyes. In the suffocating darkness, the bitter taste of vomit lingered on his tongue, and the pungent smell of iron hung thick in the air.


    I... I only killed one person, he tried to reason with himself. But the blood clinging to his skin felt like an accusation. He could still hear the echoes of the massacre-the others tearing each other apart.


    And yet, he had walked away with only one death on his hands, while the rest had annihilated each other.


    Yes/No


    The question began blinking as if prodding John to pick an answer. He didn''t. John felt his heart beating furiously as he looked between the two options. He had expected a way back to earth, but now he was faced with an option he had no idea what it meant, he was confused, a feeling that got his fist clenching and teeth gritting, but now he just felt small, out of his depth.


    At the end John knew his answer, why, he had wondered, and he knew, John was a rising star in the technological world back on earth, he had created a company for power armors and other mecha tech and he still wanted more, John didn''t want it to end, the success, he still had more growth in front of him, he didn''t know what ultimate integration meant but he would take it over death, John in the end was human and not just any, he was scum, even if it had been a decision made out of fear he knew deep within himself that he would do it again, i¡­ I''m sorry, but it''s every man for himself. He thought as he confirmed This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Yes.


    Ultimate Integration has been activated


    Be warned seedling:


    The process of ultimate integration is many and Random.


    Be prepared!


    Standby¡­


    Standby¡­


    Suitable integration Found¡­


    Process initialising


    1, 2, 3


    The numbers twisted as a brutal vertigo wracked John''s body and mind and then he was falling, his body hit the metal ground with a echoing clung and the hallway was still, his unmoving body seemed to fit into the bloody picture of the hallway as his chest rising and falling, slowly stopped and life no longer existed in the hallway.


    John¡¯s world was a churn of darkness and bubbling emotions, a thick, unyielding wave pressing down on him. He felt the urge to weep, to sink to his knees - if he could feel them - and beg forgiveness. But in the end, he was a man of logic.


    I don¡¯t know what this is, but I¡¯m not dead. At least I¡¯m still alive, he thought, steadying himself. But the ache remained, a hollow drumbeat in his chest, as the image of her face - the idol he¡¯d met hours earlier - burned in his mind. She had been captivating: crimson and black-dyed hair framing her delicate face, full pink lips drawing him in, mirth-filled eyes that seemed to see right through him. Then, like a battering ram, the memory of her broken face slammed forward, and he recoiled, trying to bury it.


    But he stopped himself. This time, he didn¡¯t look away. He faced the memories head-on, like a judge delivering his own verdict. The System message had been clear, its words both ominous and cold: survive this ¡°trial¡± and gain entry to the Integration Zone. The details had been more disturbing than the message itself, though-the Integration Zone was Earth.


    The choice that followed had been merciless. Death for all but one-or death for everyone. For John, it wasn¡¯t fear that spurred him into action. It was something colder, sharper: simple logic.


    Everyone else had dismissed it as a prank, unsettled but willing to let the timer run out. John couldn¡¯t afford that risk. If this was a joke, it would end when I tried to kill. But the System hadn¡¯t stopped, as if it were waiting for someone to make the first move. In that suspended moment, he sensed something from it-something beyond technology, a presence, a will. He realised the others felt it, too. They had all moved then.


    He could still see the man¡¯s face, the one he¡¯d strangled. He barely knew him, a face blurred by casual indifference, yet now it was etched into his mind like a stone carving.


    This better be worth it, he¡¯d told himself, hands trembling as he¡¯d let the lifeless body drop.


    Now, in the shadowed silence, John found his emotions-a chaotic river-beginning to cool. The horror receded as his calculating side took hold, anchoring him. He asked himself a single, relentless question:


    Was it worth it?


    He didn¡¯t know. Not yet. In the darkness, both literal and figurative, he came to a realisation.


    I don¡¯t think I¡¯m normal.


    John didn¡¯t know how long he had lingered in the darkness. It was timeless, weightless, until the silence fractured, and he felt the faint call to awaken, like the gentle end of a long dream. Awareness trickled in, and his head began to ache, a dull throb that pulsed through him as he felt a connection forming between mind and body.


    The first part to respond was his fingers. Stiff, unyielding, like they¡¯d been frozen in place. With slow, stilted jerks, he tested their movement-fingers, then toes, his lips twitching in a sluggish response. It felt like shedding layers of rust, his joints grinding to life, gradually yielding to his control. Finally, his eyelids, heavy and sealed tight, began to flutter.


    Before they opened, another sense awoke. The scent of something faintly sweet reached him, teasingly familiar and oddly addictive, threading through the haze in his mind. And then, touch-a hand, clasped tightly around his own. The warmth was a shock, soft and tender against his skin, with a hint of hesitance in the way it held him.


    Finally, his eyes flickered open in slow steps, pulling him fully into the waking world.


    Then for what felt like an eternity John heard the voice of another human and it was a word he had never heard directed at him ever.


    "Son." The word was hesitant, like her touch, her voice calm, rich, and slightly husky, yet trembling at the edges, unravelling with emotions too raw to hide. John felt it-every quiver, every break in that voice so close to falling apart. He was lost in its depth, until he felt the warmth of a tear land softly on his cheek.


    John was lost in the emotions of the beautiful woman that had called him; her son. He was caught off guard by the notification that appeared in front of him then.


    Congratulations Seedling!


    First Step of integration complete


    Second step of integration complete


    Third step in process¡­


    ¡­


    Brace yourself seedling

 Chapter Two: Hail Thy Hand of Death

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Two: Hail thy hand of death </h2>


    <hr>


    The first few days had been a blur.


    John¡¯s body had not been his own¨Ctwisting with pain one moment, numb and detached the next. Every nerve felt alive with the aftershock of what the System had done. The transformation had consumed him in ways he wasn¡¯t prepared for. But as the days bled together, a semblance of normalcy began to creep back into his mind. The moment Phoenix¡¯s and the man he had strangled faces disappeared into the depths of his memories, he realised that nothing would ever be the same again.


    Now, ten days later, he was beginning to understand just how much that single choice had altered the course of his life. The questions still burned¨CWho was he now? What had he become? And more hauntingly¨CWas it worth what he had sacrificed?


    The third step has been completed!


    Full body integration¡­ Completed


    Soul integration¡­ Completed


    Mind integration¡­ Completed


    Branches merging¡­ Completed


    Traits merging¡­ Completed


    Status now available


    Command: Status


    Welcome seedling to the Multiverse!


    John suspected he''d be getting his answers to his questions soon enough. He scanned the notification before his eyes. What does all of this mean? he wondered. I really need a type of Internet, but¡­ His thoughts trailed off as he looked at the woman sitting beside him. Apart from the ever-present pains of what the System had been doing to him, there was one other constant: the woman who had called him ¡°Son.¡±


    She sat in an antique armchair, upholstered in dark green, with faint sunlight filtering through the window behind them, adding to the ambient glow of the chandeliers. Before them was a large, intricately carved desk, dominating the room with its presence. The desk¡¯s surface was carefully arranged with ink pots of various colours, a feather quill, and neatly stacked papers. The room smelled of old parchment mixed with her signature scent¨Ca faintly sweet, floral fragrance that had become nearly addictive to him.


    Feeling his gaze, she turned to look at him, her bearing regal¨Clike a queen, or was she one? Her hair was long and dark, impeccably styled in a different way each time he saw her, but always neat. It framed her face, which was beautiful but sharp: eyes an intense green, nose small and perfectly shaped, lips a dull pink. Her entire appearance was enhanced by her luxurious emerald gown, embroidered with intricate golden patterns, an air of power as commanding as the room itself.


    "Do you want me to carry you?" she asked, looking at him expectantly.


    He didn''t answer, and he could see her eyes dim a little at his silence, her smile turning faintly sad. "Well, don''t worry, Chronifer," she murmured, almost as if reassuring herself. "I¡¯ll be done soon, and I¡¯ll be giving you your lessons soon."


    The way she spoke to him, so softly, as if he might break¨Cor as if she might break¨Cfelt surreal. The idea of softness didn¡¯t seem to fit her; it felt as out of place as John in a child''s body. But as he looked at her, John realised something that startled him. Since when did I stop minding being called Chronifer?


    He nodded absentmindedly in response to the woman he now knew was his mother.


    "You nodded at me, didn¡¯t you!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with a mixture of joy and disbelief. She grabbed his small shoulders, searching his eyes, a faint but fierce hope sparking in hers.


    John felt a pang of guilt for not truly responding to her. But he¡¯d managed to piece together a few key details about his situation. He¡¯d come to suspect that the child he now inhabited¨CChronifer¨Chad been born with something missing, an emptiness that left him incomplete in some fundamental way. She had tended to him, despite it all, had raised him carefully even through that emptiness.


    And now, despite the urge to let her see more of him, he reminded himself that he had to be cautious. He had a plan: small, gradual steps of growth to avoid suspicion, a slow emergence that wouldn¡¯t expose him as a stranger in a child''s skin. This was just another secret he would try to bury deep, even if it meant forgetting his true name. John. He had paid a heavy price to get here. Until he could weigh the benefits, he wouldn¡¯t risk ruining it.


    <hr>


    Later that night, after his mother had tucked him into bed, John came to a startling realization. I didn¡¯t even try to deny her as a stranger. Strangely, it didn¡¯t feel unnatural to him. Deep down, he knew one of his greatest desires had always been a family¨Ca father, a mother, maybe even siblings. But life as an orphan, shuffled between different foster homes, had never allowed that dream to take root.


    John¡¯s eyes snapped open at the sound of his door creaking open, then softly closing. She must have gone back to her room. He had avoided checking his "status" while his mother was nearby. From experience, he knew people couldn¡¯t see the system¡¯s messages, but it was hard to conceal the telltale gaze¨Cstaring into empty space as if reading something invisible.


    Status, he thought not knowing if he had to say it out or¡­


    Before him a long list of attributes blinked into existence, the language was not English, it seemed like runes or sigils, yet he could understand them.


    That is strange.


    Status


    Name:


    Chronifer Montcroix-Wythe


    Race:


    Human


    [modified]


    Traits:


    [Adaptability], [Resilience], [Endless Tongue], [Mind Bastion], [Formless], [Zenith Physique], [Child of Legacies]


    Bloodline:


    N/A


    Titles:


    N/A


    Rank:


    Seedling


    Branches


    [Locked]


    [Locked]


    [Locked]


    [Locked]


    Leaves:


    N/A


    Vines:


    N/A


    Auxiliaries:


    N/A


    Harbingers:


    N/A


    Cruel Thesis


    Physical Operator Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Strength: 1¡Á


    Fortitude: 1¡Á


    Cognition: 1¡Á


    Lithe: 1¡Á


    Mutation Actuator


    Flesh defilement: 0%


    Temporary:


    N/A


    Adjustable:


    N/A


    Permanent:


    N/A


    That''s a lot of things¡­ I don''t understand! He screamed in his mind. He looked through the list, Human, well that''s nice, but what the hell is modified!


    Then as if the system had been listening a notification popped up.


    Race:


    Human


    [Modified]


    Humans are one of the most common races through the multiverse, their adaptability and resilience a weapon of survival, but you are not just any human, your heritage Is long and complex and you are a product of this complexity, a reaction to humanity subverted and Secrets hidden in blood.


    That was a lot. Of course humanity is a common race, they''re like a living reproduction machine. John joked laughing about his race in glee. Adaptability and survival. Blah, blah, blah, of course my lineage is long, can''t you read, have you seen my new surname? Montcroix-Wythe, He smiled with pride, having only that surname seems worth the ultimate integration, he joked. What does humanity subverted means and what does it mean secrets hidden in my blood? I don''t like the sound of that.


    Well that''s a lot, I bet I was a normal human in my past life though. He concluded.


    Let''s see, how did I get my race to show me its description? John wandered, I focused on the modified, ah, yes that''s it. Oh, It''s the words in the brackets.


    Traits:


    [Adaptability]


    A hallmark of human survival, this trait allows one to quickly adjust to new environments, challenges, and circumstances. It empowers growth through adversity and change, enabling individuals to adapt and thrive no matter the circumstance.


    Humanity adapts!


    Well that was boring, John thought, he was quite disappointed in the fact that the first trait that reflected humanity he read seemed so boring, no mythical additions. Then he re-read through the trait again and then¡­ Well, scratch that this may be enhanced, well I have to see about that over time. John felt an urge to understand more about this trait but he knew that won¡¯t be happening anytime soon. He clenched his small hands, he estimated he wasn''t older than five.


    His eyes wandered to the next trait.


    Traits:


    [Resilience]


    A back bone of humanity, the endless capacity to endure and recover from physical, mental, and emotional hardships. This trait enables humans to withstand extreme stress, recover quickly from injuries or trauma, and persist through adversity without breaking. This is what humans are made of.


    Another basic, well, I guess they could be a bit more enhanced. John thought back to the situations he had gone through so far and concluded, if I have to keep going through such stuff¡­ I''ll definitely need this to be enhanced. Let''s see the next. He thought.


    Trait:


    [Endless Tongue]


    All races in the universe were born from the First Potential, the First Will. Through this shared origin, they possess the ability to speak the first tongue. All minds are connected by a single source.


    However, other tongues exist¨Cforeign and lesser compared to the Endless Tongue. This trait does not grant you the innate ability to hear those lesser tongues, but it ties you to the boundless, unifying speech of the Endless.


    Is this¡­ endless tongue what the system is written in? Also what mother speaks? John Was all but sure about that fact, yet the endless tongue wasn''t the topic that drew his gaze. First potential, the first will? What are they? This all sounds like a creation myth? John legs kicked the bed in excitement.


    I wonder what the other ones are? Maybe relating to the modified underneath my race, or maybe just personal?


    Traits:


    [Mind Bastion]


    Your mind is a bulwark, a bastion and your lineage demands it. The secrets of your blood are unknown¡ªuntested allies or foe, your mind is your fortress and your hope, stand strong. Child of Legacies.


    John read through the words with horror, and amazement, ¡°allies or foes?¡± ¡°Fortress and your hope?¡± Well I''ll be damned just what kind of family have I been reborn into? Is my blood alive or something? Or is it more mystical like ¡°ancestors¡± and such? Or maybe both. John rolled from his lying position and sat at the edge of his bed. Well this can actually be seen as a good thing, it gives me a defence against whatever secrets my blood holds, that means I have a fighting chance¡­ his mind trailed off, maybe his mother  would know something about it, after all this mentions blood. He shuffled the thought around, well, I''ll ask her¡­ when the time is right.


    Traits:


    [Formless]


    Your mind, unlike most, is unfettered within its walls, enabling you the adaptability to be without a form and to be of all forms. Your mind can bear it, and you can be anything, will be everything. Your lineage has prepared for this¡ªbe proud. Hail thy hand of death, Montcroix-Wythe.


    Beware, for defilement still lingers.


    Now, this was cool until the end. He sighed, I saw defilement somewhere, oh, yeah, the Cruel Thesis, that doesn''t sound nice, he called up the status again, read through the later parts of the status and his face darkened, only the name, Cruel Thesis makes me scared, then there''s stuff like ¡°physical operator¡±, ¡°Mutation Actuator¡±. John had a bad feeling about all of that, and actually appreciated the formless trait, it actually seemed to offer him an advantage, and, Hail thy hand of death, that was sick and also scary, just what kind of family have i reincarnated into?


    Trait:


    [Zenith Physique]


    ??? Pass the trial of Movat¡¯ha to unlock the full capabilities of this trait.


    Damn, I was actually looking forward to reading this one. Well, I think it''s self explanatory, maybe a sort of trait that makes me superhuman. I''ll think about it after the next. He rushed on to the next.


    Trait:


    [Child of Legacy]


    ??? Pass the trial of Movat¡¯ha to unlock the full capabilities of this trait.


    Well, shit! John fell back onto his bed, the disappointment hitting like a punch, what even is the trial of movat¡¯ha? Well I hope mother knows. He smiled, then slapped his face lightly. What the hell, you''re a twenty-seven year old, why are you happy about having a mother? But he had already broken into a grin.


    Hopeless


    He still had one more thing to check, though he had little hope it would yield anything exciting.


    Branches


    [Locked]


    ***


    Not even a single word? Ugh! Chronifer his eyes showing his rightful disappointment.


    John looked up into the darkness, his thoughts churning as he tried to make sense of everything¨Cthe traits, the name, the family. His mother had murmured cryptically about his father, and he doubted he would¡¯ve had these traits if he were still on Earth. But this wasn¡¯t Earth anymore; that much was clear.


    He didn¡¯t fully understand what was happening, but he could already see potential advantages. The traits and name mentioned by the system seemed significant, even valuable. The fact that his lineage was described as long hinted at possibilities he hadn¡¯t yet explored.


    Still, he couldn¡¯t ignore the possible downsides. Secrets hidden in his bloodlines, and his system¡¯s vague remarks about his heritage being both a blessing and a curse only added to his unease. Whatever it meant, he suspected it could turn out to be as much a danger as a gift.


    Then once again he asked himself the questions that had lingered at the edges of his mind like wraiths.


    Who am I now? Chronifer Montcroix-Wythe¨Ca son, once an orphan.


    What have I become? Human, but so much more.


    Was the sacrifice worth it?


    He stared into the darkness. The ship¡¯s haunting stillness crept back into his mind: the bitter chill, the iron tang of blood, the lifeless silence. Those memories wrapped around him like a shroud, unyielding.


    And yet, in the void of those thoughts, the answer formed.


    Whatever this is, Earth will not find it easy.


    His fists tightened, trembling under the weight of his resolve. He didn¡¯t know if this was salvation or ruin. But still¡­


    Yes. With that though he felt a part of him die.


    John was gone. He closed his eyes.


    In his sleep, the world seemed to hold its breath. The moonlight dimmed, fading until it vanished entirely, leaving behind only stillness and shadow.

 Chapter Three: Mothers Harsh Love

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Three: Mothers harsh love </h2>


    <hr>


    Chronifer hadn''t anticipated the sudden shift. It struck fast and hard, derailing his carefully planned displays of gradual growth, shattering the illusion that he had any real control over his new life.


    His mother, Slora, had become an unpredictable variable. For the first ten days after his rebirth, she¡¯d kept a steady, predictable routine with him¨Cgentle conversations, basic alphabet lessons, enough interaction to observe him without revealing too much. But now, her approach had shifted.


    ¡°Have you finished The Tree Within by Mofius?¡± Slora asked. Her voice was steady, rich, and husky, intimidating in its calmness. There was a weight behind it that demanded attention, though it carried a trace of warmth, as if she was reluctant to reveal too much harshness to her son.


    As Chronifer entered her study, he reflected on the shift that had followed his first look at his system¨Ca change so immediate and unyielding it left him reeling. Almost overnight, his mother¡¯s demeanour sharpened into something coldly intense, pressing him with quiet demands that bordered on relentless. She tested him with a determination he¡¯d only glimpsed before, eyes hollow yet piercing as she urged him to learn faster, retain more, and speak with a precision he wasn''t supposed to show yet. Though some would call it abusive, Chronifer knew better¨Cthis wasn¡¯t cruelty but a calculated force, driving him to a pace he hadn¡¯t planned for. His own careful control had been lost in her storm of expectation, and he struggled to keep up, feeling as if he were a ship without a sailor in unknown waters, desperately trying to re-establish a foothold on his own life.


    He nodded to her question, holding up the book briefly before glancing around the room. The study, like much of the mansion, was shrouded in faint shadows, yet it felt different here¨Cthis was his mother¡¯s sanctuary, her domain where she managed her affairs. Chronifer wasn¡¯t entirely sure what those affairs entailed, but one question that had lingered in his mind had already been answered: she was no queen. After all, what kind of queen stayed locked away in an empty mansion?


    His gaze drifted to the towering shelves of dark wood, stretching from floor to ceiling and lined with countless books. Yet, his attention was fixed on a single empty spot. Stepping forward, he placed the book back in its place with care¨Ca small, deliberate act of completion in this shadowed and sacred space.


    ¡°Come here, my soul,¡± she said¨Ca term of endearment she¡¯d been using more lately, one of many in rotation. Sun, love, my dear, son... Chronifer suspected she just disliked his name. Chronifer. Though he mused to himself, it does sound cool.


    He crossed the room toward her, passing the heavy desk and stopping beside her chair. She lifted him effortlessly onto her lap.


    ¡°Alright then,¡± she said, her voice laced with a hint of a smile, ¡°answer these questions carefully. But if you miss any, you¡¯ll be expected to finish five books in a week.¡± Chronifer turned to her, his expression one of pure horror, eyes widening in silent protest. His mother only laughed, and then, with a smirk, added, ¡°Make that six.¡±


    Chronifer, a dedicated hater of most curses, unleashed everyone he knew in the silent fury of his mind.


    His mind flashed back to a particular low point: a book she¡¯d given him, the first which she expected him to finish by the end of the first week. It was massive, the size of a small boulder and filled with more words than every textbook and article he¡¯d ever read on Earth combined. The title, Sword Styles of the Mal¡¯al¡¯atis Region, had sounded intriguing at first¨Cuntil he realised he had zero foundational knowledge. Days went by just for him to comprehend the basics of sword forms, and the further he read, the more obscure it all became. The author¡¯s enthusiasm bordered on obsession, with page after page of sprawling notes, diagrams, and maddeningly detailed explanations. To the writer, sword styles seemed to be life itself, leaving little room for Chronifer to even grasp anything beyond them.


    Yet, through the relentless struggle, he¡¯d managed to learn a thing or two¨Cnot just about swords, but about the multiverse itself. Each style in the book was designed around superhuman principles, drawing directly from the ¡°Branches¡± his status screen had hinted at. These Branches weren¡¯t merely skills or techniques; they were powers, rooted deeply in the fabric of the multiverse.


    In his exasperated reading, the book had revealed mere fragments of that vast, layered structure¨Cthe multiverse, a massive fold of universes and mystical dimensions known as pocket realms, all interconnected and split into regions. He¡¯d barely scraped the surface, but even that glimpse had left him in awe, and a little wary.


    It was clear that Slora wasn¡¯t making him read these books for pleasure. This was preparation, and he had begun to understand exactly what for. He had read six books so far through the month, the majority of which focused on monsters, human autonomy, and other races. Well, it was obvious from the system¡¯s race category that others existed¨Che had reached that conclusion after the fact was spelled out to him¨Cbut reading about them in such detail was another matter. Chronifer didn¡¯t know how to feel about the fact that he was knowledgeable enough to pass an exam on various ways to kill humans, other races, and countless monsters. The thought left him uneasy, though he wasn¡¯t sure whether it was the knowledge itself or the reason he was expected to acquire it that disturbed him more.


    He turned back to the paper his mother had laid out on her desk. I''m definitely going to ace this one, I''ve already got to finish three books within a week now. Chronifer looked at the questions and got serious, aiming to keep the pace unchanged. Chronifer had come to realise that he wasn''t normal, or rather his body was not, he had consumed books, bigger than dictionaries in days and retained the knowledge.


    Chronifer had been pained to let go of his sails but he had come to a concession on this particular topic, slora knew what she was doing and he bet his counterparts on earth weren''t getting this theoretical education but rather a practical one, the message of the system still lingered at the edges of his mind. Well this is better, I could have been playing kid for months, while I died of curiosity.


    Ten questions, Chronifer looked the questions over, this is definitely not what a five year old was meant to be answering. Chronifer remembered his mother being all panicked about him reaching six the way he currently was. Chronifer didn¡¯t know what would happen then but apparently it was big enough for his mother to squil.


    Whatever I better focus extra hard, it''s definitely not because I''m scared or anything.


    He looked at the questions, actually reading them.


    ¡°Mother,¡± he said hesitating, his voice tiny. ¡°Are these questions from all the books I''ve read?¡± He turned to look into her green eyes.


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± She trailed off, her voice not what her face suggests, ¡°you know what, it''s time for lunch, I''m famished.¡± She added standing up, she shifted his position into that of a simple princess carry.


    Chronifer shifted around in his mothers hands and smiled. Well there goes the exam and yay to mother''s cooking. The first day slora had cooked in his presence he had expected to eat something subpar but she had been a goddess, Chronifer had never tasted anything better than her cooking.


    ¡°Let''s have a talk about the books, which was your favourite, again?¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s mood plummeted


    ¡°A Guide to Morphborn and Trueborn Anatomy by Ryuu Gregor Shinasho,¡± Chronifer offered, as his Mother opened the door and entered the hallways of the mansion.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    Slora¡¯s feet falls echoed off the polished dark marble floors, the sound reverberated through the lengthy, and labyrinthine hallways. Oil paintings of battles and monsters lined the walls, each painting drawn with exquisite intent. Crimson and black tapestries hung at regular intervals, their patterns entwining symbols of the family horrifying insignia, which sent chills down Chronifer''s spine.


    ¡°Why?¡± Slora asked, her voice echoing.


    The clan insignia, black and dull gold, was hunting: it featured the face of a crying, chubby infant¨Cfeatures exaggerated in a way that distorts innocence into something unsettling. Its cheeks were swollen and glossy With streaks of gold that represented tears, while it''s mouth was opened in a silent scream, The eyes, hollow and dark, gave the impression of something lost, insatiable.


    Small, delicate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting forth amber glow along the hallways, which sent stretches of shadows along the walls, making the hallways grand and hunting.


    ¡°Well, I guess, I like the author''s humour.¡± Chronifer answered, his mother walking unhurried but seeming to eat up distance regardless of common sense.


    ¡°You like Ryuu¡¯s humour?¡± His mother laughed. Chronfier could sense a joke, he didn''t know about, does she know him? Perhaps. Before he could say anything she spoke through her laughter, ¡°Your father isn''t going to like that, he finds Ryuu jokes to be old, oh, I wonder his reaction when his son thinks they''re funny.¡±


    ¡°Do you know Ryuu?¡± He quickly added then, since his mother hardly talked about his father, he pounced on the opportunity. ¡°When will father come back?¡±


    ¡°Yes, you¡¯ll meet him eventually. After all, he¡¯s part of the Spiral. Your father, on the other hand, is on, let¡¯s say¡­ a passion mission.¡± She smiled, her eyes sparkling with distant memories, her husky voice tinged with reminiscence. ¡°Anyway, using the Genmagus Sword Style, which muscle groups are the easiest to target for reducing an enemy¡¯s mobility?¡±


    Chronifer gaped at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. There she goes again, he thought, frustration bubbling as she so casually dismissed the topic of his father¨Cand this Ryuu person. His curiosity about his father grew with every unanswered question, and now there was Ryuu.


    But then her words registered fully, and his eyes twitched. What the fu¨C He caught himself, cutting off the thought as he forced his mind to focus on the question.


    ¡°Oh, I''ll give you only thirty seconds to think up your answers, but fear not my soul, I''m very accurate at keeping track of time.¡±


    ¡°Just kill me.¡± He said before he could stop himself.


    He looked at his mother, and she met his gaze. For a moment, there was silence¨Cthen she burst into laughter, the sound light and unrestrained. Chronifer hesitated but soon found himself joining in, his laughter awkward at first before growing genuine.


    ¡°Twenty seconds left,¡± Slora said through fits of laughter.


    Bloody¡­


    ¡°Well, there are a few key muscle groups that fit the style¡¯s rhythm,¡± he began. Organising his thoughts.


    ¡°Go on,¡± His mother said expectantly.


    ¡°For quick results, the adductors in the thigh are ideal. Genmagus relies on fluid, angled strikes, so cutting here weakens an opponent¡¯s balance, allowing for shifts around them easily. Hitting the quadriceps above the knee adds to this, slowing their pivoting to counter.¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s eyes were closed as he visualised how the style would be best utilised.


    He continued with confidence. "Then, there¡¯s the biceps brachii and forearm flexors. Genmagus strikes are often close-quarter, so¡­¡± his mother cut him off by nodding her head.


    ¡°Good, the next question is¡­¡±


    <hr>


    By the time they reached the kitchen, Chronifer had answered about fifteen different questions regarding sword styles and the anatomy of both Trueborns¨Craces born sapient¨Cand Morphborns, monsters and animals who gain sentience and the ability to morph their forms.


    They reached the kitchen and Chronifer took a seat around one of the tables near the center island. The moment they entered, his mother stopped her questioning and began cooking. But then she did something she usually didn¡¯t.


    ¡°Do you know your father is a lucky man?¡± she asked as she worked.


    Chronifer scoffed. And how am I supposed to know that?


    ¡°I know nothing about my father?¡±


    His tone had an edge. For months now, he¡¯d been curious about the person he would be calling ¡®father¡¯ in this new life, but his mother always masterfully killed the topic.


    She didn¡¯t turn to look at him as she spoke. ¡°Of course you don¡¯t¡­ he¡¯s been gone for six years.¡± Her voice carried a bitter edge, each word deliberate, like she was cutting through the silence with a dull knife.


    ¡°I was about to cut ties with the Montcroix-Wythe clan and go back home,¡± she continued, her tone quieter now. ¡°But then you woke up. And just when I¡¯d nearly given up¨Clike he could sense it¨Cthe bastard sent me an apology.¡±


    Her hands stilled. The silence stretched unbearably long before she whispered, ¡°He doesn¡¯t even know he has a son.¡±


    The words hit him like a blow to the chest. He doesn¡¯t even know? His stomach twisted, a hollow ache spreading as he stared at her. The world around him felt suddenly smaller, heavier. His fingers curled into fists on the table.


    She kept talking, her voice unsteady. ¡°And I can¡¯t even blame him. I¡¯m sorry¡­ but¨C¡± Her words faltered, dissolving into silence.


    Why? His mind raced, a tangled mess of emotions. His chest tightened, a strange, suffocating heat coiling inside him. His heart thudded erratically, the sound hammering in his ears.


    His breathing grew laboured. Why does it feel like everything¡¯s falling apart? He gritted his teeth, trying to push the feeling down, but it surged stronger. His hands trembled, his vision blurred, his body betraying him.


    Family. The word echoed bitterly in his mind. In his past life, with all his fame and power, he¡¯d never had this. Nothing he¡¯d achieved could fill the emptiness where family should¡¯ve been. And now, here he was¨Cfinally part of something¨Cand it felt like it was slipping away.


    ¡°My soul¡­ My soul!¡± His mother¡¯s voice cut through his spiralling thoughts. Suddenly, her hands were on his face, lifting his chin. She knelt before him, her eyes wide with concern. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? Why are you panicking?¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± His throat constricted, his voice barely a rasp. He tried to steady himself, to swallow the storm inside him. But the words broke free, raw and desperate. ¡°Don¡¯t¡­ don¡¯t leave him.¡±


    She froze, her hands stilling on his face. Her expression shifted¨Cshock, confusion, then something softer.


    The plea hung between them, unguarded and vulnerable. Tears blurred his vision, spilling down his cheeks. ¡°Please,¡± he choked out, his voice cracking. ¡°Don¡¯t let this family fall apart.¡±


    Her gaze softened, her unreadable expression dissolving into quiet resolve. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, brushing the tears from his face.


    ¡°Okay,¡± she murmured, pulling him close. Her warmth steadied him, her voice barely above a whisper. ¡°I won¡¯t.¡±


    A simple promise. But it was everything he needed to hear.


    Three days later, Chronifer was still embarrassed. Although his disgraceful breakdown had closed the distance between him and his mother, she was more open with him about matters concerning the Montcroix-Wythe clan, though she still didn¡¯t tell him much, saying his father would do that. I pray he''s mostly a good person, was a thought Chronifer found himself having.


    The day after his breakdown, a new month had begun, and his mother had told him to reread the six books he already had over and over until he knew every word of them. She also told him he was free to explore the entirety of the mansion and its yards.


    Chronifer settled into a rhythm, spending hours with the six books his mother had set out. Day after day, the weight of their knowledge settled into his mind, shaping his thoughts.


    Chronifer found himself working out in the mornings, something he had done frequently in his past life. The time was hard to track since there were no clocks throughout the mansion, but he just listened to his body instead. That became his early and mid-morning routine. The late morning was spent reading, while he usually explored the mansion and yards in the afternoon, going through the books he had to absorb. During the evenings, he talked to his mother about the books he had read, and she sometimes told stories¨Cnot relating to his father or the Spiral, but about the Multiverse, heroes, gods, and different characters¨Cstories that shaped Chronifer¡¯s wants.


    On one of the many days blurring into each other, Chronifer found himself face-to-face with a demon. His body tensed instinctively, every sense on high alert. In an instant, the peaceful days of reading and training fell away, replaced by a pulse of danger he¡¯d almost forgotten. And in that moment, he realized exactly what his mother had been preparing him for.

 Chapter Four: Only Hopelessness is Afforded.

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Four: Only hopelessness is afforded.</h2>


    <hr>


    The world knew three rules that preceded the Montcroix-Wythe¡¯s invasion speech. Even slave number one-thousand-ten knew them by heart, though he couldn¡¯t say he cared. What he hadn¡¯t known, hanging by his legs strung from the balcony of Dygan Swan''yenns himself, was that the Montcroix-Wythe clan would dare attack the Dygan Syndicate. He sighed, a weary exhale of resignation. They get crazier every generation, he murmured in his thought. Wonder who it is this time?


    Not that he had to wonder for long. With a shudder that seemed to darken the sky itself, the city of towering golden glass spires was plunged into shadow. The slave barely had time to look up before his stomach twisted, almost making him lose hold of his stomach contents - and empty his bladder. The sky was obscured by a black-gold horror that seemed to loom over the city¡¯s fractured towers. He knew the insignia. Every Trueborn, Morphborn, slave, creature, and mind-controlled machine in the city knew it as easily as they knew fear.


    It hung there, oppressive and grotesque: black and dull gold, a crying, swollen infant''s face, exaggerated to the point of horror. Golden streams ran down cheeks twisted in a grotesque scream, and hollow, lifeless eyes seemed to look down with a hunger too deep to satisfy. Even the creatures that dotted the sky, ships and vast-winged beasts, once in frenzied motion, stilled under its gaze. The city beneath seemed to hold its breath.


    Then, a voice, gravelly, deep, and tinged with annoyance, rolled through the city, seeping from the walls, the air, the minds of every soul trapped within reach.


    ¡°I hate that I have to say this,¡± it growled, almost sulking. ¡°Damn it¡­ now you¡¯ll think I¡¯m saying it because of you. I was getting to it, for gods¡¯ sake! As if it matters¡­¡±


    The voice shifted, irritation fading into cold indifference.


    ¡°Thy hand of death has come for the Dygan Syndicate.¡± A pause, dripping with contempt. ¡°Hail Montcroix-Wythe.¡±


    The thud of fists striking chests echoed¡ªa grim, ceremonial beat. One. Two. Three.


    ¡°Hail the Spiral.¡± Another set of beats. ¡°Hail the Sombre Remembrance.¡± The final beats, and then silence.


    ¡°Hail Cipher, the Still Reaper.¡±


    And then, the sounds of the city vanished, cut off so completely it was as though the world had been plunged into a void where even silence was absent. The slave couldn¡¯t hear his own pulse, couldn¡¯t hear his own thoughts, only felt the panic building in his chest. He looked around, mouth open, unable to scream, as everyone seemed to flail in the deafening nothingness, unable to sense even the trembling of their bones. The reaper had come, and he¡¯d brought death to sound itself.


    ¡°Hail Cipher, the Lurking Dirge.¡±


    Now, the shadows began to move. Tendrils of darkness crept from the buildings, from beneath walkways and hanging cables, as if alive, coiling in agonised movement, spreading through the city like the limbs of something insatiable. They twisted around creatures and men, sent ships spiralling into their depths, and clawed at every soul that dared to stand under the now-empty, silenced sky. Some citizens fell to their knees, some attempted to scream or flee, but the shadows wove around them, indifferent to life or fear.


    Then, with a final, unshakable weight, the voice closed in, reverberating like an aftershock that made even the slave¡¯s blood run cold as he felt for his thoughts¡­ there was nothing.


    ¡°Montcroix-Wythe has come.¡± The silence gave way to the soft, mocking whisper of dismay itself: ¡°Despair.¡±


    The insignia darkened and flared, sealing the city¡¯s fate as the world turned quiet once more.


    Then they came, plummeting from the sky like fallen stars, blazing white-hot as they tore through the clouds. The slave¡¯s gaze tracked their descent, his eyes wide and unblinking, his mind hollow - not by his own choice, but because a Fiend had stripped him of will, leaving only silence. The sight clawed through his ashen skin and settled into his bones like ice.


    In one shattering instant, a vast expanse of spiraling towers collapsed, as if crushed by an unseen hand. Dust and debris rose in thick clouds, swallowing the air, yet no sound followed, as though even chaos itself had been smothered by some merciless will. From his high vantage, the slave could see it all - people, tiny as ants, scrambling over each other, fleeing, vanishing beneath waves of falling stone.


    He was void of thought, but in some buried corner of his mind, something shuddered, a primal fear pushing against the emptiness, clawing to escape the invisible grip of the Montcroix-Wythe¡¯s Fiend. The wind whipped him about, dust and debris brushing his skin like an afterthought.


    The slave watched as the Syndicate forces surged toward the landing site from every direction, sky, ground, all cardinal points converging in a coordinated rush. His gaze caught on a single figure moving among them: a bulky man with brown hair, striding forward with brutal intent. Even in his dazed state, the slave¡¯s fists clenched, his cold eyes following the man with strange, desperate focus. Then he saw her, a woman with almost no clothing, gliding behind the man like a shadow. Something flared in his chest at the sight, a flame that made his teeth grind. Even through his empty mind, he could feel his hate burn as he squeezed his hands so tightly they bled, his teeth scraping against each other, yet he could only watch.


    But his heart skipped, and a wave of dread overtook him as he saw another figure, a familiar old man descending from the clouds, though he was not part of the Montcroix-Wythe forces.


    Through the void of thoughts and sound that Cipher Montcroix-Wythe had summoned, the voice of the old man tore through it like a cruel saviour. Though all others were bound by Cipher''s suffocating silence, the old man seemed above it, his words rippling through the air as if defying the very laws of reality.


    ¡°Still nursing petty grudges, boy?¡± The old man¡¯s voice, though frail, carried an ancient weight that reverberated through the city like a distant earthquake. Sun-golden robes hung motionless as he drifted down from the heavens, untouched by the swirling winds that now clawed at the world. ¡°I see you¡¯ve reached the fifth rank. But to what end? Revenge? Foolishness. The Dygan Syndicate will not fall with me, child. Turn back while you still can.¡±


    The sky itself seemed to recoil from the weight of his words, rippling like disturbed water. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, writhing as if alive, twisting toward where Cipher had landed.


    ¡°Enough of your empty proclamations, old man,¡± Cipher replied, his voice a low, precise whisper that struck like a dagger. The air froze with his words, and the shadows around him writhed violently, coiling like serpents hungry for blood. ¡°Run, and perhaps the Shagus will grant you the mercy of a swift death.¡±


    The old man¡¯s golden robes flared with a sudden burst of light, his fury palpable. ¡°You! Since when did the Montcroix-Wythe stoop so low as to wield the powers of the Spiral? Is your pride so thoroughly broken?¡± His roar was like thunder, cracking the sky apart as streaks of light slashed through the clouds.


    Cipher''s reply took a while to come as if considering if the old man was worthy of his words. ¡°Pride is the epitaph of fools,¡± he said, his voice rippling through the air like the whispered secrets of a nightmare. The shadows surged upward in response. ¡°And you, old man, have carved yours in the stars. I am merely here to deliver the end you have long since written for yourself.¡±


    The slave, bound by terror, felt his body tremble uncontrollably. His blood froze as the clash of these two forces churned the very fabric of the world above.


    Then, like a tidal wave, thought came rushing back, crashing against the walls of his mind and the impenetrable silence that enveloped the world. What should I do? What should I do? But then he remembered¡­


    There were three rules that always accompanied the Montcroix-Wythe invasion.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    One. Fear no oaths or masters, for only truth matters before thy hand.


    I owe no loyalty to Dygan; I¡¯m no enemy! he screamed within, and as if in reply, he felt a subtle nod - a dark acknowledgment.


    Two. Lie, and death awaits you and your blood.


    Before him, men, women, and children began to twist and warp, tearing apart in horrific spirals of gore.


    Three. Sinners shall know the sweetness of pain and the shadow of death.


    Across the sprawling city, the slave saw the chosen few writhing in agony, but the Dygan members were hit hardest. The old man flicked his fingers, and the chaos stilled.


    Above all, a single truth hung in the air, unspoken yet undeniable, like the Sword of Damocles:


    To the prey, escape is not granted. To the prey, begging is futile. To the prey, hope is lost. To the prey, life is forsaken. To the prey, only hopelessness is afforded.


    ¡°Close your eyes,¡± came a chilling, soothing voice, a whisper, soft yet deliberate, just loud enough to be heard but impossible to pinpoint. It was different from the earlier voice, Cipher. The slave guessed.


    He didn¡¯t hesitate. Reaching for his thoughts, he found them absent once more. Obediently, he closed his eyes, and the world went mad.


    A tempest tore through him, flinging his body like a tattered rag caught in the fury of an unseen storm. Though his eyes remained shut, flashes of blinding light pierced through his lids, and the world shattered with deafening crashes that destroyed the dense silence that had ruled everything. Time lost all meaning in the chaos.


    Suddenly, he felt his bond wrenched free from the balcony. The howling winds dragged him violently, slamming him against the cold spire behind him. The force knocked the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping soundlessly, his instincts screaming to open his eyes. But something deeper - primal and gut-wrenching - held them tightly shut.


    A vicious updraft hurled him skyward, his body weightless caught in the reach of powers beyond imagination. His mouth opened in a silent scream, the cacophony around him swallowing every sound. The crashing roars grew closer and more frequent, his terror echoing in the hollow emptiness of his mind.


    Flailing wildly, his fingers searched desperately for anything to hold on to. By some strange twist of fate, they found purchase¡ªsomething gripped his hands. He couldn¡¯t think, couldn¡¯t process what it was, but he clung to it with every ounce of strength.


    The wind roared, a force that seemed alive, shifting and writhing around him. Or perhaps it was him moving through the storm. His thoughts had abandoned him entirely; only instinct remained, raw and unrelenting, guiding his trembling hands and hammering heart.


    And then came a silence so immediate the slave felt the cursed stillness of the Montcroix-Wythe had descended once more. He strained against it, only to realise he could hear his own breathing, faint and shallow. Then, a whisper echoed in his mind. By Umyhar. He thought the words, but they felt hollow, stripped of the reverence they once carried.


    Umyhar. The old man, bred into his mind as a God, eternal, untouchable, the one whose presence was said to hold the Syndicate¡¯s stars in place, had been confronted.


    And... he felt as though the worlds had gone mad. The air itself seemed heavier, warped. But no - it wasn¡¯t just a feeling. They really had.


    ¡°Lad!¡± shouted a gravelly voice, tired and filled with frustration. ¡°He¡¯s fucking terrified, this generation has truly gone weak. Open your blasted eyes, cunt¡­¡±


    The slave recognized the voice, his eyes snapping open as his body recoiled. His hand was trapped in the man¡¯s firm, unyielding grip.


    The slave''s breath caught in his throat as his gaze climbed to the man¡¯s face - or what served as one. Staring back at him was a mask, plain and cold, carved from pale porcelain marble. A single claw mark ran jaggedly from the top right to the lower left, as though something primal had once tried to tear the soul from within. Behind the masked face of the man floated a pulsing halo of white light, its intensity searing into the edges of his vision, as if it sought to brand itself into the depths of his mind.


    The man was draped in a white coat that flowed unnaturally, its movement like liquid silver caught in an unseen current. Beneath it, a black suit clung to his body, its surface embroidered with intricate golden patterns that writhed like living sigils - demonic, blasphemous, and ancient. It was armor not meant to protect, but to declare dominion. Around him radiated an aura so palpable, so suffocating, it twisted the very air into a pale white steam that coiled and writhed with malicious intent. It wasn¡¯t merely power - it was a weight, pressing against the fabric of reality itself, as though daring it to break.


    ¡°Lad! You¡¯re not thinking of stealing my clothes, are you, little shit?¡± The man¡¯s voice came in waves, gravelly and guttural, each word crashing like a tidal force against the slave¡¯s battered senses. It wasn¡¯t the sound that terrified him, it was the vibration, the primal dread it carried, as if his very essence trembled under its weight.


    Cowardicelore. The name slammed into his thoughts like a hammer on brittle glass, shattering his fragile composure. His mind recoiled at the weight of the name alone, his heart racing as though it sought to escape his chest. This was not a man, this was something far greater, a force dressed in human form. He was part of the Montcroix-Wythe clan, yes, but no mere part, he was an extension of their cruelty, their dominion, their terror. The aura was blinding white, yet there was no comfort in it, only an abyssal horror, a light that didn¡¯t illuminate but instead burned, stripping away all pretense of safety.


    The slave''s mind was cast in utter horror, his thoughts a tumultuous churn, his mouth a gaping mess. Why? What? Why is he talking to me? Why? What''s going on?


    ¡°Poor boys out of his depth¡± Another voice came from his side purring.


    The slave¡¯s head snapped to the side, and his breath hitched. She stood there, a vision of allure and terror, her form clad in flowing garments that shimmered like liquid shadow, laced with crimson patterns that pulsed like molten veins. Plum leaves swirled lazily around her, dissolving into mist as her aura radiated power, an intoxicating mix of beauty and devastation.


    Her glowing dark abyssal and predatory eyes held cruel amusement, and her deep red lips curved into a knowing smirk. Two obsidian horns crowned her head, her lush black hair shimmering as if alive. The air around her shimmered, oppressive yet inviting, her presence a maddening pull of lust and dread - a siren¡¯s call laced with ruin.


    ¡°What? Isn''t he getting too full of himself?¡± Came the gravelly voice of cowardicelore.


    ¡°Darling, his got every right to me be so, reaching the fifth rank is no joke and besides,¡± The woman who held the slave''s attention like a pet on a leach, looked towards him. She''s my goddess, she''s everything. ¡°He needs us to keep an eye on someone¡­ interesting.¡±


    I''ll do anything¡­ Wait¡­ no, I''ll, No! The slave closed his eyes, a deep rage flaring within him, he felt his eyes grow moist, he hated everything at that one moment, but still his hate for himself stood above all, his weakness irritated him and it had been so for as long as he could remember. But what choice do I have? It was a sad thought but one that had followed his every move.


    He opened his eyes to find both figures looking at him.


    ¡°Interesting indeed.¡± Said Cowardicelore. The woman nodded her head, her face contemplative.


    ¡°It¡¯s gone,¡± the slave whispered, his voice breaking as a bitter laugh clawed its way out. Tears streamed down his face, unbidden and hot. Cowardicelore finally let go of his hands.


    ¡°The city¡­ it¡¯s gone. Damned them all. Damned them!¡± Then he saw it - the body of Swan''yenns, the cause of his nightmares, of his self-loathing. His laughter and tears kept flowing. I¡¯m free¡­


    Cowardicelore let out a sharp, humourless chuckle. ¡°That¡¯s right, Bloodline Patriarch,¡± he said, each word like a blade carving the truth into the slave¡¯s soul. ¡°Cipher offers you a place within the Spiral - at the side of his unborn kin.¡±


    The slave froze, his laughter dying in his throat as the weight of the words slammed into him. His breaths came shallow and frantic, as though the very air around him had turned to ash.


    He looked out over the ruins of what had once been his prison. The city was no more, reduced to rubble and scars upon the earth. Yet amidst the devastation, there were signs of life - figures moving against the backdrop of annihilation, faint and blurred by the haze. The sound of distant battles rolled across the horizon, a haunting reminder that destruction was not truly over.


    The slave¡¯s knees buckled as the magnitude of it all crushed him, Bloodline Patriarch? Me. His tears turned to trembling sobs, his hands gripping the shattered ground as though it might anchor him to a reality that was slipping further and further away.


    ¡°Why me?¡± he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking under the strain of his despair. ¡°Why is it always me?¡±


    Cowardicelore tilted his head, his masked face impassive and cold. ¡°You should be honored, lad. This is no curse, it''s an opportunity. Don¡¯t disappoint him.¡±


    The woman at his side smiled, her expression both amused and pitiless. She said nothing, only watched as the slave wrestled with the chains tightening invisibly around him.


    The slave¡¯s trembling lips moved in a whisper, a prayer or perhaps a curse. ¡°Damn me. Damn us all.¡±

 Chapter Five: Full Mansion

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Five: Full Mansion</h2>


    <hr>


    Chronifer had been enjoying the month, a slow grind toward what he believed was a brighter future. For a five-year-old, he felt sharper, stronger, more capable than he had any right to be. His understanding of the System had grown by leaps and bounds, and every small victory hinted at bigger triumphs ahead. But that fragile sense of progress shattered on the last day.


    ¡°My words can never explain how sorry I am,¡± said the soothing voice of the man kneeling before Chronifer¡¯s mother.


    He was the same shadowy figure who had terrified Chronifer earlier, a figure shrouded in an unsettling mask. Black wood, tipped with two sharp horns framing a dull golden halo suspended between them. its eyes were deep, dull crimson, with faint golden pupils at their centers, and its mouth twisted into a cruel smile, revealing unnervingly white teeth. The mask¡¯s eerie design had sent chills through Chronifer¡¯s small frame, cooling his heart with dread.


    But then, his mother had appeared ¨C silent, her presence cold and commanding, like a wraith. She had uttered only one word:


    ¡°Cipher.¡±


    Then Cipher had taken off the mask. He was a slight man clad in dull black robes, etched with golden patterns at the edges. His hair, a pale gold, matched his eyes, his skin flawless and pale. Chronifer saw where he''d inherited his looks. His father¡¯s features were unmistakable, but something told Chronifer he would be even better looking.


    Hours later, they gathered in the mansion¡¯s private living room. Chronifer stood at the far corner with the strange boy and the other man, both new arrivals accompanying his father. The man, a middle-aged figure, had pale, almost colourless skin. His dull white hair and patchy, uneven beard framed lips that seemed drained of vitality. His mocking smirk extended to his pale eyes, making him appear both calculating and arrogant.


    But it was the boy who captured Chronifer¡¯s attention. He looked starved to the point of emaciation, his ashen skin stretched tight over protruding bones. Dark bruises marred his sickly complexion, and his skeletal frame seemed barely able to support the tight skin that clung to it. He stood silently, his hollow eyes scanning the room with a mix of apathy and fear.


    ¡°You told me before you went off that you''d be back in two years,¡± Slora said, her voice calm but measured. Her hands rested neatly in her lap.


    ¡°I have no excuses,¡± the man said, his eyes flicking past the velvet chairs arranged in a circle to Chronifer. ¡°I thought there would be no problem¡­¡±


    He was cut off by Slora¡¯s voice, tight with frustration. ¡°You didn¡¯t even send me letters. You just left me, I was all alone in this system-forsaken mansion!¡± Her calm cracked for an instant, her voice rising. ¡°Why? I was so lonely.¡±


    Slora lowered her head, hiding whatever expression she wore from view. The man¡¯s eyes darted once more to Chronifer, a flicker of something passing through them. Chronifer felt his stomach twist in confusion. Why does he keep looking at me?


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry I wasn¡¯t there. I missed you just as much,¡± Cipher said, his gaze briefly flicking to Chronifer. The boy beside him seemed more intent on blending into the room¡¯s emerald walls, though his ashen skin made it hard to disappear. Still, he had one ear turned toward the conversation, listening intently.


    The man, on the other hand, just seemed tired ¨C like a spectator to a show he was too weary to care about.


    What is even happening right now? Chronifer thought, his confusion deepening. Why are they talking like this, right in front of us? He glanced from one to the other, feeling more out of place than ever. This isn¡¯t how I imagined this conversation would go¡­


    ¡°Although¡­ I hope¡­¡± The man hesitated, glancing at Chronifer before continuing. ¡°At least you had our son, Chronifer?¡±


    Wait, was my name given by my father? Was mother not calling it rebelling against him? Isn''t that kind of petty? He wondered, amused.


    Slora¡¯s eyes flickered his way, a brief moment of tension before she answered, her voice soft but firm. ¡°He hadn¡¯t always been here.¡±


    Cipher''s eyes narrowed, his thoughts turning inward. ¡°Was that why the birth moon came only two months ago?¡±


    Birth moon? Chronifer frowned, piecing the puzzle together. What¡¯s that? Two months ago¡­.


    Slora gave a single nod. ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been a fool, Slora. In all my time away, I¡¯ve realized how much I need you, more than anything. You¡¯ve always been the one to keep me going.¡± Slora met Cipher¡¯s gaze, a smile slowly forming on her face, loving, yet tempered by the practicality that had always defined her. She slid off her chair and wrapped her arms around him tightly.


    ¡°I love you too,¡± she murmured, her voice soft but grounded.


    Chronifer stood frozen, completely taken aback when the man beside him whispered the same words. His lips moved in quiet sync with Slora¡¯s. Chronifer¡¯s eyes flickered between the two of them, still grappling with the surreal shift. What the hell is happening? he thought, his mind racing. How is this so simple? I thought these two ¡°parents¡± of mine would be at each other¡¯s throats. Why does this feel so... easy? His confusion intensified, leaving him rooted in place, utterly baffled.


    The two slowly pulled away from their embrace, as if the action itself caused them pain. They stared at each other for a long moment, eyes drawn to one another¡¯s lips, moving closer. Chronifer instinctively squeezed his eyes shut, Oh, no way, he thought. I can¡¯t watch this. He thought embarrassed for both of them.


    But before anything more could happen, a gravelly voice sliced through the tension.


    ¡°Alright, lovebirds,¡± the voice drawled, a playful edge to the words. ¡°I get it, you two haven¡¯t seen each other in a while. But I¡¯d much rather see your usual cold sides than this... mushy nonsense.¡± His gaze flicked between them with a pointed glance. ¡°And I¡¯m pretty sure the little turds over here feel the same.¡±


    Chronifer let out a breath he hadn¡¯t realized he was holding, a wave of relief washing over him. Thank goodness.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    <hr>


    Not long after that conversation, Chronifer found himself at the center of attention.


    "Your mother has told you about me, hasn''t she?" Cipher asked, his voice low and deliberate, crouching in front of Chronifer. There was something in his expression now, something new, that caught Chronifer''s attention.


    Chronifer nodded, his posture casual despite the pressure of Cipher''s gaze. "Yes. She told me you''re my father, your position, and your name. Nothing else, though."


    Cipher studied him, his expression unreadable, as if weighing each word. For a moment, his eyes softened ever so slightly ¨C a subtle shift, but noticeable to Chronifer.


    "You carry her confidence well," Cipher remarked, his tone colder, but with an unmistakable edge of pride. He straightened slightly, the faintest glimmer of excitement flickering across his unchanging expression. "You are sharper than I had expected."


    I''m going to be so damned handsome, I won''t even need the surgeries. He was delighted.


    Cipher studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp and contemplative. "You speak with confidence. I can see your mother¡¯s insight has left its mark on you," he said, his words clipped and deliberate.


    "I can¡¯t say for sure," Chronifer answered, his eyes briefly darting around the room before settling back on Cipher.


    Had I spoken too well? He wondered. Chronifer had stopped taking much precautions with his mother and had not thought about hiding it from his father.


    "Chronifer is far more than that," Slora interjected smoothly, her tone warm and husky yet commanding. "Our son is a genius," she said, her voice carrying a quiet pride that filled the space.


    She leaned into the chair¡¯s backrest, crossing her legs with a poised elegance that radiated pride.


    His eyebrows rose slightly. Huh?


    Slora continued, her posture elegant as she spoke. "I gave him the sword styles of the Mal¡¯al¡¯atis Region, meant to challenge even an advanced student ¨C and he didn¡¯t just finish it.¡± She explained gesturing soothingly with her hands, looking at each figure in the room, even the boy who still stood at the corner of the room and the man who stood leaning against the piano at a small podium.


    ¡°He understood it.¡± Her voice was gushing with both pride and a hidden awe. ¡°I intended it as a way to gauge his limits, to see how far he could be pushed, but I underestimated him. He exceeded all expectations."


    Chronifer¡¯s stomach tightened, his hands growing clammy as his heart beat hollowly in his chest. Had I... dug my own grave? The relentless days of reading flashed through his mind, each one more gruelling than the last. He swallowed hard. All this suffering... It was my fault.


    A month ago, he might have screamed at the unfairness of it all. But now, a flicker of satisfaction replaced the bitterness. Instead of a sorrowful smile, a faintly pleased one grew on his face.


    "The brat¡¯s head is swelling already," a gravelly voice cut through the moment, full of mocking humour. "Someone ought to stomp on that pride of his before it leads him into the jaws of a nobody¡¯s death."


    Chronifer¡¯s jaw tightened, his eye twitching, but he refused to rise to the bait. His father, Cipher, on the other hand, turned to the man and nodded.


    What was that?


    "What¡ª" Chronifer began, but Cipher cut him off with a subtle gesture.


    "Yes," Slora answered smoothly, her words like an echo of something long understood.


    Chronifer watched the silent exchange, his eye twitching again in growing irritation. Wow, they are so connected, but what does it even mean?


    "Mother," he said at last, his tone direct but respectful. "Could you explain what you¡¯re talking about?"


    Slora turned to him, her gaze softening, though her posture remained upright and regal. "I believe I¡¯ve told you before," she began, her voice deliberate, each word chosen with care. She paused, her fingers toying with the ring on her necklace. The family insignia gleamed faintly under the light, as though sharing in some unspoken burden.


    "You were born with an affliction that kept you in a deep sleep for a very long time," she said at last, the weight of her words softening the room¡¯s atmosphere. "Then, a few months ago, you woke up. But even then..." She exhaled quietly, her gaze momentarily distant, as if wrestling with a memory she couldn¡¯t quite banish. "I was afraid for you."


    "Why?" Chronifer leaned forward slightly, his curiosity sharpening.


    Slora studied him for a moment before continuing. "Your father¡¯s great-grandfather bound this domain with a ritual," she said, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper ¨C pride, perhaps, or the faintest trace of caution.


    As she spoke, the gravelly-voiced man began playing the piano, the notes weaving a bittersweet melody through her explanation. The sound grounded the moment, turning the room into a strange mixture of comfort and tension.


    "When a child of the Montcroix-Wythe family is born," she continued, "the moon is supposed to lose its colour. A symbol, a sign of the bond and its strength. But when you were born, that didn¡¯t happen." Her words carried no blame, only a quiet, factual tone that somehow made them heavier. "Even when you woke, the ritual didn¡¯t activate ¨C at least, not until ten days later."


    Chronifer blinked, his mind catching on her words. So that was why.


    Slora sighed softly, her hands folding in her lap as though bracing herself. "That delay," she said, her tone gentler now, "has created... complications. Political ones. But I¡¯ll explain those in detail later."


    Chronifer sank back into the velvet chair, his thoughts racing. I knew it. That¡¯s why she started pushing me so hard. And no doubt, those ¡®complications¡¯ are tied to me reaching six.


    What changed that made the ritual activate, though? It only took him a second to realise. It was the moment I accepted my role as Chronifer, wasn¡¯t it? Definitely.


    "Mother," he said after a moment, his voice quieter but no less direct, "is that why you¡¯re so worried about me reaching six?"


    "Yes, my soul," Slora said softly, her voice brushing against his frustration like a balm. For a moment, her gaze seemed to carry everything she hadn¡¯t said ¨C her worry, her expectations, and something he could only describe as hope.


    "Well, looks like you¡¯ve got some competition, Cipher," the gravelly voice interjected again, his amusement undercutting the weight of the moment. The notes of the piano seemed to twist with his tone, playful yet intrusive.


    Slora turned a sharp, disapproving look toward him, though she said nothing.


    "Enough," Cipher said abruptly, rising from his chair. His tone was flat but carried a quiet command that left no room for argument. "I¡¯m about to die of hunger."


    The way he said it made the statement seem casual, but there was a weight behind it ¨C one Chronifer couldn¡¯t quite grasp, though he felt it settle in the room.


    "We¡¯ll have dinner now. We¡¯ll discuss this further tonight." Without waiting for acknowledgement, he rose and strode toward the dining hall.


    The weight of his parents¡¯ words settling over him like a cloak. His mother¡¯s explanations had filled in some blanks, but there were still far too many questions unanswered. Like the secret of his blood? The Movat¡¯ha trials? What was the Spiral and more about the Montcroix-Wythe? And Chroifer was going to get them all.


    Later that evening they hadn''t discussed anything because Cipher and the man who Chronifer didn¡¯t know his name had fallen asleep almost immediately after they had eaten.


    Instead Chronifer found himself talking with the boys who had lurked in the other man''s shadow and only few minutes into their conversation Chronifer was left with only one thought:


    Just what kind of family had I gotten born into!?

 Chapter Six: Knowledge Is a Foundation

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Six: Knowledge Is a Foundation </h2>


    Chronifer could still feel the cold sweat on his back, the lingering aftermath of his conversation with the boy who bore no name. That talk had stirred something deep within him, something primal, a realisation of what he had become and the faint reawakening of a hunger that had once driven him in his past life.


    The boy¡¯s words had unravelled a hard truth: he was no one.


    No longer was he a name that graced every headline, a figure whose fame and wealth turned even his smallest actions into events that the world watched with bated breath. All of that was gone. Now, in this second life, he was just one of countless others.


    Yes, he bore the name Montcroix-Wythe, a name feared and revered across the multiverse. But no one knew the name Chronifer. The weight of his family¡¯s legacy was immense, but would he hide beneath it? Or would he forge his own legend, carve his own tale of horrors and mythical deeds that would stand apart, unshakable in its own right?


    His steps slowed as he passed the door to Slora and Cipher¡¯s room. His mother and father. The very things he had lost. Famous, powerful, feared, admired¡­ influential.


    He paused there, memories pulling him back to another time, another life. In that life, as John, he had built everything from nothing. He had clawed his way up, one agonising step at a time, defying the odds to create an empire. But the System had taken it all from him, reduced his existence to ashes.


    And yet, here he stood, reborn. Given a second chance. This time, he wouldn¡¯t start at the bottom. This time, he wouldn¡¯t claw and scrape for survival. This time, he would prey.


    He heard muted voices through the door, Slora and Cipher¡¯s tones low, unreadable. They were his parents now, a constant reminder of everything that had changed. That sound alone crystallised a stark truth in his mind:


    He was John no longer.


    John had fought for every scrap, for every breath, in a world that had given him nothing. But John was gone. Chronifer had taken his place, a name brimming with potential, teetering on the edge of greatness or ruin. His future was ripe, almost too ripe, and it would spoil if left unattended. He would seize every opportunity, crush every obstacle, and claim everything he had lost ¨C and more.


    The conversation with the boy with ashen skin replayed in his mind, the words and their implications circling like a predator.


    Was he ready?


    He exhaled deeply, his resolve hardening as he turned away from the door. Yes.


    The decision had already been made. Now, there was only one path forward. If it feels too easy, it isn¡¯t the right path ¨C only the hard road leads to what matters.


    <hr>


    Chronifer stepped out of the mansion, his mind lingering on his conversation with the nameless boy. It played through his mind.


    ¡°Hey.¡± Chronifer had first noticed the boy standing silently in the corner of a dim hallway. His frame was thin and hunched as though the walls themselves might swallow him whole. Despite the grime covering him, the boy¡¯s features caught Chronifer¡¯s sharp eye ¨C ashen skin with a faint metallic hue, silver hair tangled and dull, and lifeless, pale lips.


    His face, even in its gaunt state, held a sculpted elegance: taut like polished obsidian with a nose that might have belonged to a master artist''s model. The eerie glow in his pure white eyes served as pupils, an unnatural contrast to the dirt smeared across his angular features. Even his hands, slightly too long to be human, trembled as they hung by his sides, bony and raw from labour.


    Well. I knew there were other races, but damned does he Look like a multi million dollar tv show character.


    Chronifer approached with an easy smile, trying to put the boy at ease.


    ¡°Do you not talk?¡± he asked, extending a hand. ¡°My name¡¯s Chronifer. Looks like we¡¯ll be seeing a lot of each other.¡±


    The boy¡¯s head dipped slightly, his expression unreadable.


    ¡°I talk,¡± he said finally, reaching for Chronifer¡¯s outstretched hand with both of his own, a hesitant gesture that spoke volumes. The tension in the boy¡¯s movement was palpable, like he was bracing for something to go wrong.


    Chronifer tilted his head and, seeing the hesitation, retracted one hand with a wave. ¡°Relax. One hand is fine.¡±


    The boy nodded, but his frown deepened as he glanced at his hands. He seemed almost ashamed of them.


    ¡°That¡¯s nice,¡± Chronifer continued. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°I... I don¡¯t have one,¡± the boy admitted, his voice tight. Though he stood a full two heads taller than Chronifer, he seemed to shrink in that moment, retreating into himself.


    Before Chronifer could think of what to say, the boy stiffened. His eyes fluttered briefly, and a faint but noxious smell seemed to emanate from him. Then, almost imperceptibly, his form blurred, blending into the dim light of the corridor like a shadow.


    ¡°Cool!¡± Chronifer stepped forward in excitement, his golden eyes gleaming. ¡°You just did something!¡±


    ¡°What? I did nothing¡­¡± The boy¡¯s voice wavered as he glanced down, avoiding Chronifer¡¯s gaze. He shifted on his feet as if hoping to escape notice.


    Chronifer, not one to miss a moment, fixed him with an expectant look. ¡°Oh, come on. You can tell me. What was that? It looked pretty useful!¡±


    The boy hesitated, but something in Chronifer¡¯s tone coaxed him forward. ¡°Cowardicelore¡­¡± he murmured, the word barely audible and tinged with guilt. ¡°He called me that once... and... a Bloodline Patriarch.¡±


    Chronifer blinked, taken aback. ¡°A Bloodline Patriarch?¡± He reached out instinctively as the boy swayed on his feet. His hands caught the boy¡¯s bony shoulders, steadying him. ¡°Hey, are you alright?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± the boy said quickly, though his voice betrayed him. His glowing eyes flicked upward briefly before darting away.


    Chronifer leaned in slightly, his voice gentler now. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just¡­ tired,¡± the boy admitted, his tone reluctant, as though the confession itself might bring trouble.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Chronifer nodded thoughtfully, patting the boy lightly on the back. ¡°See? That wasn¡¯t so hard.¡± He gestured down the hallway. ¡°Come on, I¡¯ll show you to a free room. Maybe you can explain this ¡®Bloodline Patriarch¡¯ thing on the way.¡±


    The boy hesitated again before following, keeping to the shadows as they walked. ¡°A Bloodline Patriarch is someone who¡¯s the first to possess a Bloodline,¡± he began, his voice low but steadying as he spoke.


    Chronifer tilted his head, curious. ¡°What¡¯s a Bloodline?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­¡± The boy paused, searching for the words. ¡°It¡¯s what happens when someone¡¯s body develops a unique branch connected to their body and soul. When Essence flows through their soul tree, and into their body, the reaction with the branch creates something rare, almost like an inheritance, but it¡¯s born within you. It¡­ I hear it can change you.¡±


    Chronifer was thankfully not lost about Branches and the soul tree anymore, the last book he had read: The Tree Within having explained the basics of it all. Branch huh, so the body develops an affinity? And It works as some sort of catalyst for a mutation. Interesting.


    ¡°Huh.¡± Chronifer¡¯s interest deepened as he processed the explanation. His mind wandered briefly, wondering if he himself might possess one or, better yet, become a Patriarch someday. ¡°So... Do you know yours?¡±


    The boy¡¯s face darkened, his steps slowing. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he said softly. ¡°There¡¯s a seal placed on me.¡±


    ¡°A seal?¡± Chronifer echoed, glancing back at him.


    ¡°I cant view the system status.¡± The boy¡¯s voice wavered as he continued, his hands clenching at his sides. ¡°When your father and his second wiped out the Dygan Syndicate, they found me. His general, Oniihino, promised to remove it someday... but for now, I don¡¯t know anything.¡±


    Chronifer frowned but kept his tone light. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll figure it out soon enough. When they do, promise you¡¯ll tell me what your Bloodline is, okay?¡±


    The boy¡¯s glowing eyes widened slightly in surprise at Chronifer¡¯s sincerity. He nodded quickly. ¡°I will.¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s grin returned, sharp and playful. ¡°Great! Now, about my father, what¡¯s a ¡®second¡¯ and who? And who are the Dygan Syndicates? What do you mean he wiped them out?¡±


    The boy spoke carefully, his words measured. "Your father... I wouldn¡¯t presume to know much about him beyond what¡¯s widely known," he said, addressing the topic with reverence. "Your father, the Lurking Dirge, is a living legend, like all the Montcroix-Wythe, and the Division Lords of the Sombre Remembrance. But of course, you¡¯d know far more about that than I ever could. The missions they¡¯ve accomplished, the things they¡¯ve done..." His voice trailed off, filled with awe.


    Chronifer almost interrupted to demand details about those accomplishments, but he restrained himself.


    The boy hesitated, his hands fidgeting nervously as if trying to wipe away invisible sweat. His gaze dropped, avoiding Chronifer¡¯s piercing eyes filled with curious glee. "I don¡¯t think this is widely known," the boy finally said, "but your father¡­ he¡¯s become a Rank Five. A Fiend. A Demigod"


    Chronifer blinked, his thoughts racing. He could feel the power behind the word, it felt like something tangible.


    The boy continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "A Second, as I understand it, is more than a lieutenant. They¡¯re the most trusted representatives, the extensions of their lord¡¯s will and authority."


    Chronifer¡¯s eyes narrowed as he connected the dots. "Hold on. You mentioned Cowardicelore earlier." His tone sharpened. "Is this Cowardicelore¡­ my father¡¯s Second?"


    The boy nodded, shrinking slightly under the weight of the question.


    "The pale-haired man?" Chronifer pressed.


    Another nod.


    Chronifer groaned, the implications crashing down on him.


    The boy waited for Chronifer to collect himself before daring to speak again. "The Dygan Syndicate, my masters, were once thought to be the peak of the black market. They ruled in shadows, untouchable... or so I was taught. But before your father, his Second, and his seven generals..." His voice faltered as he stared into the dimly lit corridor, as if haunted by memories only he could see.


    "They crumbled," the boy said softly.


    <hr>


    Chronifer walked through the yard, the conversation with the boy from the previous night lingering in his mind. The boy had said little but revealed enough. Now, he knew more about Cipher, the existence of his generals, though not much, and his second, the man drilling the boy.


    ¡°C''mon, little piss. Is that all you¡¯ve got in you? After all the food? Is this the strength you can muster? Don¡¯t stop until you faint, or I tell you to stop,¡± the man barked, pausing with a low giggle. ¡°Though I should inform you, that¡¯s never.¡±


    Chronifer jogged toward the boy, laying down beside him. Without a word, he joined in, matching the boy''s crunches.


    The mansion''s grounds loomed around them, their grandeur steeped in an uneasy stillness. Ancient trees lined the edges, their dark green leaves whispering faintly despite the still air. Rare, dark flowers bloomed amidst twisted vines, their eerie beauty stark against the dark earth.


    ¡°What¡¯s this, now?¡± the man, called Cowardicelore by the boy, growled.


    ¡°Dante, peace. I don¡¯t mind the boys training together,¡± came a voice from behind. It was soft, almost a whisper, yet it carried authority that demanded attention.


    Dante, the man called Cowardicelore, snorted. ¡°I think you¡¯ll mind when your boy starts talkin¡¯ like a real man. Not some weakling.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Cipher said, his tone calm and precise. ¡°Son, come with me.¡±


    Chronifer was at his side before the command fully left his lips.


    ¡°Morning, Father,¡± Chronifer greeted.


    ¡°Morning, my son,¡± Cipher replied as they began walking.


    The yard stretched before them, a labyrinth of stone pathways and marble statues. Some were chipped and worn, their once-proud faces weathered by time. To the east, a small lake shimmered black, reflecting the faint light of the overcast sky.


    Chronifer had a thousand questions, but his father¡¯s steady silence swallowed them. The sounds of rustling trees, the chirping of crickets, and the distant whistle of the wind filled the air. He glanced at Cipher, who seemed perfectly at ease in the quiet.


    Finally, Cipher spoke.


    ¡°I¡¯ve made a decision. Your mother and I have agreed on how things will proceed.¡±


    Chronifer tensed. His father¡¯s calm voice made every word heavier.


    ¡°Your training begins in earnest now. Physical, intensive. Knowledge is a foundation, but action sharpens it into a blade.¡±


    He paused, glancing at Chronifer. ¡°I¡¯ve seen the books you¡¯ve read. Theories, guides, anatomy, monsters. You¡¯ve laid a foundation, and for the next three months and twenty days, we¡¯ll make it solid. Your mother will ensure you¡¯re crammed with more knowledge, but I¡¯ll teach you how to wield it. After your birthday, the pace will change. More combat. More brutality. Because six is when official training begins.¡±


    Chronifer nodded but hesitated. Finally, he said, ¡°I understand. I¡¯ll do it. More than that, I¡¯ll do more.¡±


    Cipher studied him, his golden eyes sharp. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I want power,¡± Chronifer answered.


    Cipher tilted his head slightly. ¡°Is that all? No grander reason?¡±


    Chronifer faltered. The memory of Dante¡¯s harsh words replayed in his mind, cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. He feared the obscurity of a nobody¡¯s death, fading into nothingness without leaving a mark.


    But he couldn¡¯t say that. Not yet.


    ¡°I... I don¡¯t think so,¡± he said, the lie sticking in his throat.


    Cipher¡¯s gaze lingered on him, then softened. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. Power is a start. It¡¯s a framework. The rest will come.¡±


    They walked on, the statues seeming to watch as father and son disappeared into the shadows of the towering trees.


    Two days later, Chronifer¡ªa gym bro in his past life and a relentless hard worker in this one¡ªfound himself grappling with a profound philosophical question:


    Where does hard work end and insanity begin?


    His conclusion was simple:


    Help me!

 Chapter Seven: Where Does the limit lay

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Seven: Where Does the limit lay</h2>


    <hr>


    Chronifer had known, after finishing the book A Tree Within, that everything was not as it seemed. The idea that a tree was growing within his soul might have been laughable, a fragment of some fever dream, if not for the face he saw every morning in the mirror. He still had trouble calling it his own. Though the kid was more good looking than he ever did at that age and looking at his parents, he could just tell the kid would grow into a more refined and attractive man than he used to be, it felt... alien. And yet, it made the book¡¯s claims harder to dismiss.


    The book had provided him with crucial insights into a part of his status screen:


    Rank:


    Seedling


    Branches:


    [Locked]


    [Locked]


    [Locked]


    [Locked]


    Leaves:


    N/A


    Vines:


    N/A


    He knew, at least, that his rank as a seedling would change when he turned sixteen. At that point, his essence would begin to flow safely through his Soul Tree, reducing the risk of flesh defilement, a term that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. However, A Tree Within had been the smallest and least detailed of the books he''d read, leaving him with more questions than answers.


    What was clear was that his status, for now, was supposed to be restricted, he had no doubts his reincarnation had changed that fact. He suspected this was the reason his parents hadn¡¯t asked many questions about it yet, probably assuming that, as a seedling, he was unremarkable. Safe.


    Still, the book had shed some light on the broader mechanics of his Soul Tree. Branches, it explained, were affinities, powerful links to multiversal laws that existed on every level. Leaves acted as nexuses of control, focused on those affinities. But vines? Vines were a mystery the book had left unresolved. No matter how many times he re-read that section, their significance remained frustratingly obscure.


    Five days into his training, however, one part of the book lingered in his thoughts, etched into his memory:


    "A body with a Soul Tree is more than its base race. Its limits stretch far beyond the ordinary. I suggest you reach that limit."


    So with that sentence ever lingering on the edges of his mind, Chronifer decided, insanity seemed to be needed to become what he sought to be.


    ¡°Who the fuck told you little wastrels that you''re done?¡± Dante barked, his gravelly voice the narrator of all Chronifers nightmares. It sent chills down his spine.


    The nameless boy now named Nyte by Dante was already on the ground in position for more push-ups before Chronifer.


    ¡°The lordlings seem to have problems following orders.¡± He laughed, a ugly thing. ¡°We''ll fix that.¡±


    ¡°Give us another fifty push-ups.¡± Quietly from the side came Ciphers voice sounding like an angel but preaching a gospel of sorrow.


    Chronifer obeyed though he was loath to do so, knowing this was him joining in on Nytes training, his training hadn''t begun, like his father had called it the first day, ¡°stretches¡±. Cursing himself, Chronifer pushed himself up and reclined back down and then up again.


    His mind was dark like the days still young and unclear.


    ¡°Done.¡± Dante said. The mist clung to the ground like a shroud, muffling their grunts and the dull thuds of their collapsing bodies.


    Chronifer had only gotten three hours of sleep, his body was still aching for the intensity of the workout from the past day, he had no doubt that he would have damaged a muscle or two if he had been back on earth, but now he was tired, extremely so but that was it. If challenged he could still go.


    Like he could hear his heretical thoughts Dante conformed.


    ¡°Lads these days, I bet my grandmother would be stronger than you little farts.¡± He taunted, kicking both of them. ¡°Up! Up! You know what''s next, give me one-fifty pull-ups.¡±


    Chronifer and Nyte were off to catch the low hanging branches of the hunting trees, Nyte reached the tree before Chronifer and was already pulling himself up by the time Chronifer reached him, Chronifer began. Nearing the end of the sets his arms were trembling like a rope fraying at the edges, but he gritted his teeth at a glance at the boy, Nyte, who had dropped to the ground.


    By the time Dante announced the leg exercises, Chronifer''s body felt like lead. Yet, there was no stopping ¨C squats, lunges, jumps ¨C all marked by Dante''s relentless jeers and Cipher¡¯s quiet, unyielding demands. Every moment dragged on, each movement feeling like a climb up an endless hill.


    When Dante hounded them through their final sets, collapse wasn¡¯t an option. Before they could even think to stop, he had them running laps around the mansion. The dark wooden structure loomed in the misty pre-dawn light, its stillness a stark contrast to Dante¡¯s hoarse voice. His insults were vivid and overly detailed, targeting their stamina, determination, and even their lineage.


    "Faster, Nyte! Chronifer! I¡¯ve seen corpses move with more grace!¡± Dante barked.


    The ordeal was far from over. After what felt like hours, they were granted a thirty-minute break. It was just enough time to eat and brace themselves for the next punishment. Both boys slumped into stillness. Nyte¡¯s portions were notably larger than Chronifer¡¯s, but he wasn¡¯t touching them. Instead, Nyte sat near the dark wooden structure of the mansion, the shadows cast by its walls seeming to mirror his emotions.


    Chronifer¡¯s arms were so strained that holding his spoon felt like trying to lift a boulder. He fought to keep it steady, forcing himself to eat despite the ache. But Nyte? Nyte wasn¡¯t even trying.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to eat?¡± Chronifer asked, raising an eyebrow. His own arms trembled as he struggled to grip his spoon, the strain from the morning exercises making even eating a challenge. Still, his body had already begun acclimating to the pain, but the dread of what came next hung over him like a death sentence.


    Nyte shook his head, his exhaustion palpable. But as Chronifer¡¯s eyes lingered, the boy finally picked up his spoon. His hand trembled violently, the muscles twitching as if they¡¯d forgotten how to obey. With great effort, he managed to bring food to his lips.


    Chronifer felt a pang of concern. I hope he¡¯ll be fine. Chronifer watched him, concern flickering beneath his otherwise composed demeanour. Nyte, though never social, had grown eerily silent since the training began. His gaze, once cautious and guarded, had dulled into something distant, like a shadow of himself remained to endure the exercises.


    Occasionally, Nyte would mumble something under his breath, fragments of words about sleep and simpler labour. The weight of the boy¡¯s exhaustion was palpable, and it scared Chronifer. When he¡¯d first spoken to Nyte, the other boy had seemed weathered, but now it was as though he was unravelling entirely. His prior tiredness had been a mental weight, but now it extended to every fibre of his being. Nyte¡¯s will wasn¡¯t breaking, it was disintegrating, like a sandcastle eroded by relentless waves.


    ¡°Nyte! Time¡¯s up. You know the drill,¡± Dante barked from a distance.


    Chronifer¡¯s stomach churned as he watched Nyte rise, his movements sluggish yet obedient. The boy¡¯s back was bent under the weight of something intangible, and as he walked away, Chronifer¡¯s lips parted, ready to speak.


    A familiar, low voice interrupted him.


    ¡°The boy will be fine,¡± Cipher said, his tone a quiet reassurance. ¡°Dante is no fool. Now come.¡±


    Chronifer hesitated, casting one last worried glance toward Nyte. He didn¡¯t entirely believe his father¡¯s words, but he knew better than to argue. With a reluctant nod, he followed, acutely aware that, despite his adult mind, he couldn¡¯t yet claim maturity in this world.


    As they walked, Cipher broke the silence, his tone calm but commanding.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°The Dance of Mirrors¨Cour family¡¯s fighting style¨Cis unlike what most people think it is. Many believe it to be a sword style.¡± He paused, glancing at Chronifer with sharp eyes. ¡°They are wrong. It is an art of the mind above all else.¡±


    Chronifer smiled, a little embarrassed, sensing his father¡¯s awareness of his curiosity.


    ¡°I... didn¡¯t know we even had a family style,¡± he admitted. Until now, Cipher had only drilled him on reaction and prediction exercises ¨C intense workouts that left no room for formal techniques. It had culminated in choosing a weapon, with Chronifer finally settling on straight jian after countless trials.


    ¡°Well, now you do.¡± Cipher gave a small, knowing smile. ¡°Today, we begin the real training. But before you can learn the Dance, you must understand it.¡±


    Cipher spun a dagger in his hand, its blade whistling sharply through the air. His movements were fluid yet precise, perfectly matching Chronifer¡¯s own speed ¨C a deliberate display. Chronifer instinctively stepped back, his heart racing. He nearly tripped, but his reflexes saved him at the last moment.


    He grinned, pride gleaming in his eyes. At least my reflexes are intact.


    ¡°Acceptable, but not good enough,¡± Cipher said with a hint of disapproval. ¡°When I¡¯m done with you, son, you won¡¯t just be good enough. You¡¯ll be more than exceptional. You¡¯ll be the best, someone even perfectionists envy.¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s shame flickered briefly before being replaced by anticipation. He was hooked.


    ¡°So... what¡¯s the style about?¡± he asked, curiosity sparking.


    Cipher¡¯s gaze grew serious. ¡°The Dance of Mirrors is not just a sword style, Chronifer. It¡¯s a philosophy. No two members of the Montcroix-Wythe family share the same vision of it. I¡¯ll teach you the foundation, but the interpretation, your Dance, will be yours to create.¡±


    Cipher didn¡¯t step back, nor did he appear to move. Yet, impossibly, he was suddenly several feet away. Chronifer¡¯s breath caught. How...?


    ¡°Come at me,¡± Cipher commanded, tossing a black dagger through the air. Chronifer sidestepped, letting the blade fall to the grass before retrieving it. Cipher shook his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips.


    Chronifer lunged forward, knowing full well he couldn¡¯t hurt his father. His strike, a vertical slash ¨C was clean and precise. Cipher¡¯s response was unnervingly perfect, catching the blade¡¯s edge with his own dagger, mirroring Chronifer¡¯s movement as if they were reflections in a mirror.


    Chronifer stumbled back, shocked. Cipher mirrored his retreat, copying every detail down to the positioning of his feet.


    ¡°The first foundational mechanic and philosophy of the Dance,¡± Cipher said, his tone level, ¡°is Reflection. Observe and mimic your opponent.¡±


    ¡°Again.¡±


    Chronifer dashed forward, his footfalls muted on the grass. He struck wide, a horizontal slash aimed at his father¡¯s side. This time, Cipher¡¯s response came as a curved strike, sending Chronifer¡¯s dagger spinning into the air. Before he could process the movement, he had already fallen to the ground.


    ¡°Did you see it?¡± Cipher asked, his tone as indifferent as if he were discussing the weather.


    Chronifer pushed himself up, shaking his head. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Again,¡± Cipher commanded.


    Chronifer attacked once more, this time focusing entirely on his father¡¯s movements. When Cipher¡¯s blade clashed with his, it twisted ¨C just slightly ¨C but enough to redirect Chronifer¡¯s strike entirely.


    This time, he noticed. ¡°You twisted my strike,¡± Chronifer said, awe creeping into his voice. ¡°It¡¯s like a fractured mirror, similar, but off just enough to change everything.¡±


    Cipher¡¯s lips curled into a satisfied smile. ¡°Exactly. That¡¯s the second foundational mechanic and philosophy of the Dance: Distortion. Alter your opponent¡¯s movements for tactical advantage. Reflection is only the beginning. The real power lies in what you do with the reflection.¡±


    He gestured for Chronifer to attack again. ¡°Now, come.¡±


    Chronifer launched into a series of strikes, wide slashes, thrusts, feints, testing every angle he could. Each time, Cipher countered with subtle shifts, until finally, after over twenty exchanges, Chronifer paused, realisation dawned on him.


    ¡°You¡¯re exploiting my moves,¡± Chronifer said slowly. ¡°Turning my strength into a weakness.¡±


    He was a little shocked at his own savvy regarding fighting moves so far but he supposed it was unavoidable seeing his mental shelf of books he¡¯d read.


    Cipher nodded, lowering his blade and sitting cross-legged on the ground. ¡°Correct. The third foundational mechanic and philosophy: Destruction. You reflect and distort, and in doing so, you uncover both your opponent¡¯s strengths and their weaknesses. Then, you attack the foundation of that strength, collapsing it entirely.¡±


    Chronifer stood, processing everything his father had said. The ideas were profound, intricate, and, most of all, overwhelming.


    ¡°Speak,¡± Cipher said, sensing his hesitation.


    Chronifer hesitated but spoke his mind. ¡°I get it. I understand the theory, but... it sounds impossible to use in an actual fight. It¡¯s so... complicated.¡±


    ¡°I see your worries, but end them. What seems insurmountable now becomes possible with time and effort,¡± Cipher said, his voice steady and reassuring as he dismissed Chronifer¡¯s doubts with a calm wave of his hand. ¡°Reflection, distortion, and destruction, these are the marrow of the style. But remember this: with the Dance of Mirrors, your greatest weapons will always be your mind and body.¡±


    Chronifer nodded, intrigue flickering in his golden eyes.


    ¡°The Dance of Mirrors,¡± Cipher continued, ¡°has no starting stances, no rigid forms to follow. Instead, it teaches you to see, to listen, and to process. It is a repository of countless styles, each one faced, studied, and conquered. To master it is to become an artist, weaving together the rhythms of disparate techniques, deconstructing them, and even destroying them. The goal is to become formless.¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s heart skipped a beat at the word, though he masked his reaction with practised calm. His mind, however, was racing, drawn back to the memory of his trait.


    Traits:


    [Formless]


    Your mind, unlike most, is unfettered within its walls, enabling you the adaptability to be without a form and to be of all forms. Your mind can bear it, and you can be anything, will be everything. Your lineage has prepared for this ¨C be proud. Hail thy hand of death, Montcroix-Wythe.


    Beware, for defilement still lingers.


    So this was its purpose.


    ¡°Father,¡± Chronifer began cautiously, skepticism tingling his tone, ¡°isn¡¯t this style just¡­ copying and pasting others?¡±


    Cipher¡¯s lips curled into a faint smile, amusement glimmering in his gaze. ¡°So it is,¡± he said, throwing Chronifer off balance for a moment before continuing with a soft laugh. ¡°And yet, it is so much more. At its foundation, it may seem like mimicry, but as you advance, it transforms. The Dance evolves, becoming something entirely unique to its wielder.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Chronifer asked, leaning forward slightly, his curiosity piqued.


    Cipher¡¯s expression grew thoughtful, his tone turning almost contemplative. ¡°If the three foundational mechanics: reflection, distortion, and destruction, are the marrow, then the four principles are the bones, organs, and muscles of the style. Without them, the Dance remains lifeless, a shadow of what it is meant to be.¡±


    ¡°What are they?¡± Chronifer pressed, his voice betraying his eagerness. As he spoke, he realised how bright the day had become. At some point, the morning mist had burned away, leaving the world bathed in clear sunlight.


    Cipher rose smoothly, brushing specks of grass from his hands, and stepped closer to his son. His hand came to rest lightly on Chronifer¡¯s shoulder, his faint smile softening into something almost paternal. The sunlight gleamed against his sharp features, lending him an air of quiet authority.


    ¡°Calm yourself, son,¡± he said, organising his thoughts before speaking again. ¡°The Dance of Mirrors is not merely about movement or technique. It is a philosophy, one guided by its four principles. The first of these is ¡®Reflections Are Conversations.¡¯¡±


    Chronifer raised an eyebrow, scepticism clear on his face. ¡°Conversations? You¡¯re saying a fight is just... talking with fists?¡±


    Cipher¡¯s smile widened. ¡°Exactly. Every movement of an opponent is a statement, an expression of their intent. A punch, a feint, a step, they all speak volumes about who they are and what they want. The practitioner of the Dance listens and responds. But¡± he raised a finger, ¡°you do not respond as you receive it. You distort it back sharper, twisted, and layered with echoes of other styles.¡±


    He took a step back, spreading his hands as if framing a larger picture. ¡°Think of it this way: they say, ¡®This is my strength.¡¯ You reply, ¡®I¡¯ve seen better.¡¯ They ask, ¡®Can you keep up?¡¯ You laugh and answer, ¡®No, but I can outlast you.¡¯ A true conversation.¡±


    Chronifer nodded slowly, his lips curving into a faint smirk. ¡°Alright, that¡¯s one. What¡¯s next?¡±


    Cipher¡¯s expression turned serious. ¡°The second principle: ¡®The Essence Over the Surface.¡¯¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s mind flickered to his mother. So, she had good reason when she forced me to study the sword styles of the Mal¡¯al¡¯atis region...


    Cipher¡¯s voice cut into his thoughts. ¡°A shallow imitation is weakness, Chronifer. The Dance demands understanding. Each opponent¡¯s style must be deconstructed to its core, not just its strengths, but its vulnerabilities. To see beyond the surface means grasping the rhythm of their movements, the emotion driving their strikes, the philosophy underpinning their choices.¡±


    He gestured toward the window behind them. ¡°When you fight someone, you don¡¯t just see them; you see their reflection in you. The more you understand their essence, the easier it is to dismantle them.¡±


    Chronifer frowned thoughtfully. ¡°So... it¡¯s not about copying them. It¡¯s about seeing their foundation and making it crumble?¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Cipher said, a hint of pride in his voice. ¡°That brings us to the third principle: ¡®Destruction Through Distortion.¡¯¡±


    He reached for the small mirror hanging on his belt and held it up between them. ¡°The Dance is not about perfectly reflecting someone else. It¡¯s about distorting their image until they cannot recognize themselves. When you reflect an opponent¡¯s technique, you fuse it with fragments of other styles stored within your mind, creating something new, something sharper, something that exposes every flaw in their original.¡±


    Cipher¡¯s voice dropped slightly, his tone weightier. ¡°The goal is not to mirror them but to shatter them. Let them see their imperfections reflected in you.¡±


    Chronifer tilted his head, the weight of the concept settling in. ¡°And the fourth?¡±


    Cipher grinned, flipping the mirror in his hand like a coin. ¡°The fourth and final principle: ¡®Multiplicity in Combat.¡¯¡±


    Chronifer blinked. ¡°Sounds... complicated.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± Cipher admitted. ¡°The Dance of Mirrors do not simply reflect one opponent. They reflect every opponent you¡¯ve ever faced and every style you¡¯ve ever encountered. This creates an unpredictable, multidimensional form of combat, overwhelming your enemy with movements that feel both familiar and alien. To fight you is to fight themselves, fractured, multiplied, and better than they ever were.¡±


    He stepped closer, holding the mirror up to Chronifer¡¯s face. ¡°The Dance is not just a style, son. It¡¯s a way of seeing the world, of understanding people, of wielding everything you¡¯ve ever learned. And now, it¡¯s your turn to learn it.¡±

 Chapter Eight: Tides of Endurance

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Eight: Tides of Endurance </h2>


    Chronifer had often wondered, as many modern humans from Earth did, how people survived before the advent of smartphones and other entertainment mediums. His current life provided an unflinching answer to that question.


    There was no time to be bored.


    Before dawn¡¯s first light, he was already awake, immersed in an unrelenting regimen of exercises dictated by Dante''s foul jeers and ciphers'' quiet expectations. His mornings ended with laps around the Montcroix-Wythe mansion ¨C a sprawling, four-winged structure of dark wood, its vastness making even basic cardio an exhausting feat. Only after this endurance test came a short break for food. Then, as if the universe conspired to remind him of its cruelty, his real training began.


    His days were consumed by Cipher¡¯s ruthless lessons in The Dance of Mirrors, a combat style that seemed as much philosophy as technique. Each session pulling him and Nyte in different directions, Nyte training was in the sword style: Deaths Gambit, Cipher had described it as the creation of Dante ¨C better known as Cowardicelore ¨C a deranged mercenary whose twisted brilliance had forged a style as ruthless as its creator. Chronifer tried not to think of the boy pulling deeper Into himself, he had never been a extrovert or a talker but he was withering


    I had really hoped we could be friends. I just hope he doesn''t break now though.


    Cipher¡¯s expectations were crushing, his methods calculated to break lesser wills. He began with the most grueling introduction imaginable: drills. Hundreds of strikes ¨C vertical, horizontal, diagonal, thrusts, and shadow parries ¨C every single day. The count steadily grew until it reached a staggering thousand repetitions for each.


    ¡°To master the complex, you must first master the basics to their core,¡± Cipher had said.


    Initially, Chronifer had believed the strikes were simply to build muscle memory. It wasn¡¯t until Cipher introduced the concept of Hearing the Song that he understood the deeper purpose. It was preparation for reflecting or rather the core on which it all stood.


    Cipher explained the idea with his blend of philosophy and brutality, his love for the style ever present. ¡°Every style has a rhythm, a flow ¨C its song. If you can¡¯t hear it, you can¡¯t survive it, and you won''t be able to flow with it¡±


    The first step was to observe and replicate rhythm. Cipher demonstrated a simple, steady sequence: a vertical slash followed by a lateral sweep, ending in a thrust. Chronifer¡¯s task was to repeat it perfectly, not just once, but until his body understood it instinctively.


    The task seemed simple at first, but Cipher¡¯s standards were merciless. ¡°You¡¯re not listening, Son,¡± he said chillingly calmly after Chronifer¡¯s first attempt. ¡°Think of this as music. You hum a song and you do not know a word of its lyrics, or emotion it carries but still you can capture its rhythm. Do not think deeply. not yet, just feel the style and reflect it.¡±


    At first, Chronifer was frustrated. His body ached, his muscles screamed, and his mind wavered under the constant critique. Yet, slowly, painfully, he began to see what Cipher meant. Each style carried a rhythm, a pattern that guided its movements like a song. By the end of the first month, he could identify those rhythms, though mimicking them was still a struggle, it was like moving to a tone not yet established or understood, the words carried by it not yet known, the emotion conveyed yet still blurry.


    Cipher¡¯s praise was rare, but when it came, it was genuine. One evening, after Chronifer had flawlessly mirrored a sequence Cipher demonstrated, his father gave a rare nod of approval, and a soft encouraging smile growing more present through their training. ¡°Good. You¡¯re hearing it now. That¡¯s the first step. Remember, though ¨C the song isn¡¯t yours yet. Hearing isn¡¯t the same as mastering, you''re yet to understand it, how to use the rhythm or what lays beyond and underneath it¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s progress wasn¡¯t limited to observation. Cipher demanded application. He introduced sparring sessions where Chronifer had to ¡°hear¡± Cipher¡¯s rhythm and react accordingly by reflecting. The results were¡­ disastrous.


    Cipher moved like a predator, his strikes fluid yet unpredictable. Every attack carried a rhythm that Chronifer struggled to grasp, let alone counter. By the end of the first session, Chronifer lay bruised and humiliated on the training floor. Cipher offered no sympathy.


    ¡°Failure is the beginning of learning,¡± he said simply. ¡°Get up, Son.¡±


    And so, the cycle repeated: drills, sparring, failure, reflection. With each repetition, Chronifer grew sharper. He began to anticipate Cipher¡¯s movements, catching glimpses of his repeating and inconsistent tone in the rhythm of his attacks. It was far from perfect, happening more inconsistently than not, but it was progress, all of these had to be accomplished while using the same rhythm or style as Cipher.


    One day, after weeks of grueling practice, Cipher stopped mid-session and regarded Chronifer with an unreadable expression. ¡°You¡¯ve heard the song¨Chence reflection. Good. Now we distort it.¡±


    Distortion, as Cipher explained it, was the art of disrupting an opponent¡¯s rhythm without losing one¡¯s own. Chronifer had remembered thinking about how complicated the style had sounded when Cipher had described Distortion as "Altering your opponent¡¯s movements for tactical advantage" now he knew his father had been simplifying it.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t enough to hear the song ¨C you had to bend it to your will.¡± Cipher had explained


    Cipher¡¯s lessons shifted focus. Now, sparring sessions weren¡¯t just about survival; they were about manipulation. Cipher would execute a sequence, and Chronifer¡¯s task was to interrupt the flow by Chronifer distorting the rhythm¨CCipher changing the style he uses for every bit of ground Chronifer gained. A misplaced strike, a feint, or even a poorly timed movement could be enough to throw Cipher¡¯s rhythm off balance.


    The difficulty was maddening. Cipher¡¯s rhythm felt unshakable, reflecting its rhythm, a chore. Adding distortion makes it seem like trying to break the tide. Yet, as weeks turned into a month, Chronifer began to find cracks. A subtle misstep here, an unexpected feint there¡ªsmall victories that earned him fleeting praise, all the while using the same style and rhythm as Cipher,  Chronifer had seen it like trying to beat a master at his game, but he was making progress at it.


    All the while he felt a new understanding blossoming.


    Chronifer still felt like there were layers to the style he was missing. If it were to be described as a song, there was the rhythm and flow which he had designated as the hum, and then there were the lyrics¨Cwhich he was close to understanding. then the other layers of instrument and then there was the emotion and message the song was sending. He felt like he was only seeing the peak of the iceberg but he tried not to lose sight of that peak.


    The lyrics which Chronifer was close to conquering were the flaws and vulnerabilities of a style he had come to realise.


    ¡°You¡¯re learning,¡± Cipher said one evening after Chronifer managed to distort the rhythm of a sparring sequence. ¡°Barely. But you¡¯re learning.¡±


    The drills intensified. Cipher introduced increasingly complex rhythms, changing his style, forcing Chronifer to adapt on the fly. He pushed Chronifer beyond exhaustion, often without warning. ¡°An enemy won¡¯t wait for you to catch your breath,¡± Cipher reminded him.


    Despite the pain, Chronifer could feel himself improving. His movements grew sharper, his mind quicker. He could anticipate Cipher¡¯s attacks with increasing accuracy, and his distortions became more deliberate, more effective, and his ability to feel the rhythm and flow, although still slow compared to Cipher movements, was getting better.


    He had also come to the realisation that distortions worked best when they weren''t just an altered reflection of the opponent but also a mix of other styles he had experienced from Cipher.


    Slowly through hours and days of brutal sparing he had come to slowly begin to feel the lyrics, he could now find flaws and vulnerabilities although, inconsistently and dependent on the style Cipher was using.


    One evening, after a particularly brutal sparring session, Cipher called a halt. ¡°You¡¯ve done well,¡± he said, his voice carrying a rare note of approval. ¡°You¡¯ve passed the second mastery. You¡¯re not perfect, but you¡¯re close enough.¡±


    The words sent a jolt of pride through Chronifer¡¯s exhausted body. For the first time since beginning his training, he felt like he was truly getting somewhere.


    But Cipher wasn¡¯t finished. ¡°You¡¯re on the edge of mastery, son. Don¡¯t let it go to your head. The third mastery isn¡¯t about hearing or distorting, it¡¯s about, well a lot of things, but I''ll say this, it about Sharpening the Mind and Expanding Knowledge¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    As Cipher¡¯s words sank in, Chronifer felt a strange mix of pride and dread. He was finally making progress, but the path ahead promised to be even more grueling.


    Chronifer would love to attest his perseverance through the foreign art of battle styles to his iron will but the truth was far more simple, it was all thanks to his mother Slora, she had packed him fat with knowledge about battle styles and he had even been able to recognise some familiar styles and counter them more easily due to his reads.


    But his real Solace were the strolls he and his mother took round the mansion, when the sun was a crown above the horizon. And his time spent with her in the study and library alike reading books, she was also mostly the one who carried him to his room when he dozed off, although he had to admit he had just as much knowledge as teas and families to stare clear of their women


    So as his training session with his father was reaching its end there were two things Chronifer was looking forward to. His mother cooking, he hoped since Dante did cook at times, the food tasting like death and sadness. And also the strolls.


    ¡°Focus, Son,¡± Cipher said as he and Chronifer moved fluidly through the forms of one of Cipher¡¯s most practiced styles. His voice was calm yet sharp, each word deliberate. ¡°The third rank is about consolidating your progress. You¡¯ve learned the flow of multiple styles, but you¡¯ve failed to grasp their core.¡± He paused, correcting himself. ¡°Except, of course, those you¡¯ve studied in depth, due to your books.¡±


    Chronifer allowed a small smile to tug at his lips, recalling the rare moment when his father had shown surprise. It had been subtle, a slight raise of both eyebrows, but Chronifer knew that was as much shock as Cipher would ever reveal.


    ¡°This mastery is simple in concept but difficult to achieve,¡± Cipher continued. ¡°You¡¯ve learned to flow with rhythm¨Creflecting it, and to alter it. Now, you must master the skills that made those feats possible¡­¡± His voice trailed off, his sharp gaze cutting through the momentary silence. Chronifer understood without further prompting.


    ¡°My observational skills,¡± he said. Cipher nodded, gesturing for him to continue. ¡°My instincts, speed, flow, flexibility, and the ability to reflect other styles, even if only at a surface level.¡±


    ¡°Brilliant as always, my son. All correct. The last point is especially crucial,¡± Cipher replied, his tone steady but edged with approval. ¡°You¡¯ve been reflecting the rhythm of styles, yes, but only at a shallow level. You¡¯ve relied on instincts and raw skill to carry you this far. Against a truly refined style, those same strengths will lead to your downfall.¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s faint smile faded, his expression turning serious. Cipher stepped closer, his voice dropping into a more deliberate cadence. ¡°Take this to heart: never use the Dance of Mirrors until you¡¯ve reached Mastery Four, or at the very least, the latter stages of Mastery Three.¡±


    He let the words linger before continuing. ¡°This phase is about preparing you for higher-level opponents. Through sparring with me, you will build your understanding. Your task is to uncover the core of each style I show you. Learn it. Understand it. Then store it away, nestled firmly within your mind as though it were a library, a repository.¡±


    Cipher¡¯s voice sharpened, carrying an edge of urgency. ¡°This mastery is not just about reflection or distortion. It¡¯s about collecting knowledge, honing your skills, and preparing for the layers of complexity within every style you¡¯ll encounter. The foundation you build now will determine your survival later.¡±


    He stepped back into a ready stance, his golden eyes narrowing. ¡°Mastery Three allows you to anticipate and counter styles. At this level, you¡¯ll only catch glimpses close to a style¡¯s core ¨Cits intent¨C but that is enough. You¡¯ll start to recognize stances and see fragments of an opponent¡¯s arsenal. That awareness, even in pieces, is where you need to be to wield this art with any measure of safety.¡±


    Cipher¡¯s movements became precise, deliberate, as he demonstrated a stance. ¡°Now, show me what you¡¯ve learned. This time, don¡¯t just follow the rhythm, seek its purpose. Feel its pulse. And most importantly, uncover what lies beneath.¡±


    Chronifer had high expectations, he could almost imagine himself reflecting opponent¡¯s moves before they made it, using their styles against them and crushing their foundations and using distortions to attack them with fury. He could almost see it, if he learned further he would be able to move more fluidly, flowing with the rhythm, seeing flaws and vulnerabilities, understanding and predicting stances and moves, even seeing intent.


    Chronifer pushed forward, learning the stances of the style his father showed him, he could see them helping him with his distortions.


    However Chronifer couldn''t see the frown growing on his fathers face.


    The day¡¯s training had drawn to a close, and Chronifer was looking forward to his walk with his mother when he stumbled upon a scene he hadn¡¯t anticipated.


    ¡°Get up, lad,¡± Dante growled, his voice carrying a restrained edge.


    Nyte lay sprawled on the ground, staring blankly at the darkening sky. But his eyes, those lifeless, empty eyes Chronifer had grown used to, were now aligned with something primal: pain, anger, and defiance. Chronifer¡¯s pulse quickened. Damn it, I saw this coming. He rushed toward them.


    ¡°Get. Up,¡± Dante repeated, his tone brooking no argument.


    For the first time in months, Nyte spoke, and his voice carried a weight Chronifer hadn¡¯t expected. Raw. Exhausted. Shaking.


    ¡°No¡­ no, no, no. I don¡¯t want this!¡± Nyte¡¯s hands rose shakily to his face, trying to smother the tears that spilled over. His words were broken, halting, but as they poured out, his body moved, dragging him to his knees. ¡°I didn¡¯t ask for this life. I didn¡¯t ask to be born. I didn¡¯t ask to be a slave of the Dygan Syndicate. And I didn¡¯t ask to be taken by you!¡±


    The last words tore out of him like a scream. His body quaked, his shoulders heaving as he fought the tidal wave of emotion. ¡°I want to be free, even just once. I want to be lazy. I want to live my life my way. Or better yet¡ªjust end it! Throw me away! I¡­ I¡ª¡± His words choked off into silence as he collapsed inward, wracked with sobs that seemed to bleed from his very soul.


    Chronifer stood frozen, shaken. He saw himself in Nyte, he had always seen a shadow of himself in the boy. But now he realized he hadn¡¯t understood him at all.


    ¡°Get up, lad,¡± Dante commanded again, his voice a hammer striking steel.


    But Nyte didn¡¯t move.


    ¡°No! Just kill me like you killed them! What do I even live for? Not for myself!¡± Nyte¡¯s roar was hoarse, steady, and hollow, the cry of someone stripped bare of hope.


    ¡°This, boy, this is life,¡± Dante snapped, his voice dark and cutting. ¡°To another man, speaking to me like that would have cost him his tongue, and I¡¯d have pissed on the bloody stump. But you? You bark about freedom like a whipped dog. So tell me, then: what do you want? What¡¯s this great, noble goal that makes you so different from the rest of us? Speak.¡±


    Nyte recoiled, his face twisting in disgust ¨Cdisgust with Dante, with the world, and with himself. His voice came low, trembling but determined. ¡°Give me a cutlass and a plot of land. I¡¯d farm it. I¡¯d live a normal life. That¡¯s all I want.¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s stomach tightened. He pitied the boy, but he couldn¡¯t understand Dante¡¯s methods ¨C or his cruelty. His parents, watching from a distance, remained silent.


    Dante¡¯s laugh exploded, a harsh, mocking sound that reverberated like a whip crack. He clutched his stomach as he doubled over, his laughter slowly dying into a cruel sneer.


    ¡°A farm?¡± Dante spat the word like a curse. His face twisted in fury. ¡°Every day, I stand here teaching you a style I¡¯ve forged through battles that nearly killed me, and this is how you repay me? Spit in my face, why don¡¯t you?¡± His voice dropped, simmering with quiet rage. ¡°Do I enslave you by giving you strength? Do I bind you in chains by making a man out of you? Do I shackle your pitiful existence by giving it purpose?¡±


    Nyte¡¯s voice cut in, sharp and desperate. ¡°I don¡¯t care about power!¡±


    ¡°Then you don¡¯t care about life,¡± Dante snarled. His tone was cold now, final. ¡°You¡¯d rather waste away. Is that it?¡±


    ¡°I want to live. I want to¡­¡± Nyte¡¯s voice cracked, his defiance faltering. ¡°I want to rest. I want to sleep, just once without nightmares. I want to eat until I¡¯m fat, walk free with no chains, no marks, no seals. I want to be lazy. I want to be free.¡±


    Dante stepped closer, his presence looming. His voice dropped, low and dangerous. ¡°Then you want power, lad. Power to rest. Power to eat your fill. Power to walk free without someone branding your back. You think power is just about fighting?¡± He leaned in, his words like a dagger to the gut. ¡°It¡¯s not. Power is the right to be left the hell alone. Without it, you¡¯re nothing. A punching bag. Trash. A toy for others to play with.¡±


    Nyte stared at him, his face pale, streaked with tears and snot.


    Dante straightened, the anger leaving his voice, replaced by a chilling calm. ¡°Strength, boy, is the only way you¡¯ll ever have peace. And if you don¡¯t want peace¡­¡± He turned and walked away, his voice lingering like a shadow. ¡°Then you don¡¯t want to live.¡±


    Chronifer watched as Nyte crumbled, his body folding in on itself as he sobbed into the dirt. His mind raced, calculating.


    What should I do?


    After a beat, Chronifer stepped forward.


    Chronifer crouched beside Nyte, the boy¡¯s sobs muffled by the dirt. For a moment, he just watched, waiting for the storm to pass. Then, in a low, steady voice, he spoke.


    ¡°You want to quit? Fine. No one here can stop you. But if you give up now, you¡¯ll never get that farm. That peace you¡¯re begging for? You¡¯ll die before you see it.¡±


    Nyte didn¡¯t look up, his voice raw. ¡°What do you know about it? You¡¯re not a slave. You don¡¯t get it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Chronifer said. ¡°I don¡¯t. But I know what it¡¯s like to be trapped, to feel like nothing you do matters.¡± He paused, softening his tone. ¡°I¡¯m offering you a deal. We go through this together. I¡¯ll watch your back when it¡¯s too much, but you don¡¯t get to quit. You stay in the fight. One step at a time.¡±


    Nyte¡¯s shoulders stilled, and for a moment, Chronifer thought he¡¯d gotten through. But when the boy finally turned to him, his eyes were empty again.


    ¡°No,¡± Nyte whispered. ¡°I can¡¯t do this. I don¡¯t want to.¡± He turned away, curling into himself.


    Chronifer¡¯s jaw tightened, frustration and pity warring within him. He stood, brushing the dirt off his hands. ¡°Then stay down,¡± he said coldly. ¡°But don¡¯t expect the world to stop kicking you while you¡¯re there.¡±


    Without another word, he walked away, leaving Nyte behind in the gathering dark.

 Chapter Nine: When Change Knocks

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Nine: When Change Knocks</h2>


    The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the mansion¡¯s black-wood grounds. Chronifer strolled alongside his mother, their steps falling into a steady rhythm. The air carried a weight of approaching change ¨C his birthday loomed ever closer, and with it, a tide of expectations he could feel but not yet see.


    ¡°I''m really scared about the Sombre Remembrance, father was clear about me joining as a division lord.¡± Chronifer began. ¡°I was excited about joining but that was until he actually explained it to me, the elite group of the Spiral meant to take on the impossible missions, doesn''t that just seem ruthless?¡±


    ¡°And yet your father still lives Son¡± Slora encouraged.


    ¡°Yeah, but there is always a fear, knowing that you have to accomplish what is seen as impossible.¡± Chronifer added, remembering the odds he had to face as John, he wanted to be more than that but still, having to face impossible challenges on every turn would be maddening. Chronifer with all his dreams and ambitions was left unsure if he would even survive such a life.


    "Don''t worry; your father is the one training you, so you should have no fear.¡± Slora comforted


    ¡°I guess so, I really do.¡± His mother patted his hair gently, not ruffling his hair.


    ¡°Now did he tell you about the Spiral?¡± Slora asked, gently, her husky voice measured and light.


    ¡°Yes, on second thought, no,¡± Chronifer began but quickly corrected. ¡°He just told me how the Spiral was created by six clans and that among all of them, the Shinasho''s where the least funny,¡± He turned to his mother with raised eyebrows ¡°I''m guessing you told him that I liked Ryuu¡¯s jokes.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes I did.¡± Slora said her voice carrying a hint of a smile, chronifer looked at her beautiful face and there was one indeed.


    So Ryuu Gregor Shinasho is part of one of the clans who created the Spiral, like us the Montcroix-Wythe, interesting.


    ¡°Didn''t he tell you more about the Spiral, though?¡± slora inquired.


    ¡°Not really.¡± Chronifer answered, with a shrug


    "Well, apart from the Shinasho''s being the least fun, let me give you a little lesson on what The Spiral of Wickedness truly is," Slora began, her voice calm and familiar yet spoken with majestic resonance. "To the worlds and other organizations, we are but a mercenary group, and yes, we are that. But what we truly represent is a declaration¨Ca Declaration of freedom."


    Her tone carried a weight, each word deliberate, as if carving truth into the very fabric of existence. "We do not limit ourselves by the rules of engagements deemed too dark or too vile for others. No, we engage in all things, even the Foulest Deeds." Here, she paused, allowing the gravity of that statement to settle, branding it onto Chronifer''s soul. "But that is merely a smidgen of what makes us a declaration. We are not bound by the mere notion of payment; we choose what we desire. The amount does not choose us. All that matters is our will. We are the architects of our destiny, the shapers of our fate and of those we deem our clients and allies, unbound by the chains of morality or coin.¡±


    Before Chronifer could answer or could shake the goosebumps and chill flowing through him like a wave he saw a figure on the periphery of his vision.


    Nyte stood a short distance away, his posture unsure but his gaze focused. Ashen-skinned and lean, the boy seemed taller than Chronifer remembered. Something about his presence unsettled the moment, like a wind shifting direction.


    Slora noticed and smiled faintly. ¡°I¡¯ll leave you to it. I¡¯ll be in the library.¡±


    She departed, leaving the two boys alone among the towering trees. Chronifer turned to Nyte, whose expression betrayed inner conflict.


    ¡°You offered me a deal,¡± Nyte began, his voice quiet but laced with tension. ¡°Why?¡±


    Chronifer tilted his head, thrown by the question. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Why are you doing all this?¡± Nyte¡¯s words came quickly, as if he feared losing the nerve. ¡°For power? For your family? Or is it just so people fear you?¡±


    The questions hung heavy between them. Chronifer hesitated, unable to summon an answer.


    ¡°Why did you offer me companionship?¡± Nyte pressed on, his voice trembling with something raw. ¡°Was it pity? Or just another chain of kindness?¡±


    The words hit Chronifer like a hammer, forcing him to confront an uncomfortable truth. A chain of kindness¡­ is that what this is?


    Chronifer¡¯s mind raced. He remembered his life as John¡ªcutting ties with friends, betraying them, sacrificing everything for success. By the time he¡¯d reached the stars, he¡¯d been nothing but hollow, his heart devoured by cold calculation. Every move, every relationship had been a tool, a game. Was this any different?


    The answer was clear. Yes.


    But it wasn¡¯t only that. Beneath the blackened edges of his ambition flickered a faint, stubborn ember, tainted, but real, empathy. He wasn¡¯t chasing purity; he wasn¡¯t trying to redeem himself. But he was building something new, and this time, he wouldn¡¯t let it crumble into emptiness.


    Chronifer looked around the grounds, the mansion, his mother, his father, Dante, and Nyte. If they were the ones on the line, what would I do?


    He thought he could let them go. But in the silence behind that thought, the emptiness stirred, gnawing at the edges of his resolve.


    No. Not this time.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what I want beyond power,¡± Chronifer admitted at last. ¡°But I know this, I won¡¯t abandon you, Nyte. Or anyone who stands with me. If I rise, we rise. Together, we¡¯ll find something worth all of this.¡±


    The words came with surprising weight, anchoring him in a way he hadn¡¯t expected. This was something new ¨C a promise, not just to Nyte, but to himself. Loyalty to my family and all I deem worthy of it.


    Nyte studied him for a long moment, as if trying to gauge the truth behind the words. Finally, he nodded, his tension easing. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    Chronifer started to reply, but a voice interrupted.


    ¡°Unfortunately, all vacations must come to an end.¡±


    Dante¡¯s figure emerged from the shadows, his presence commanding as always. For a brief moment, a faint halo of light flickered behind his head before fading into nothingness.


    ¡°Your training begins tomorrow,¡± Dante announced, a faintly remorseful tone dripping from his words. ¡°Oh, and good news, Oniihino calls for you.¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s mind raced. Were they waiting for this before removing the seal?


    He cast a glance at Nyte, who looked more resolute now but still uncertain. Chronifer exhaled deeply. Tomorrow begins a new chapter for both of us.


    The days crawled by towards Chronifer¡¯s sixth birthday, the weather turning colder with each passing moment. Training became routine, a dull ache fading into normalcy. Dante''s approach to training Nyte became unconventional, allowing Nyte to choose when to train. If the boy felt up to par and Dante agreed, they''d simply lounge and talk instead.


    Their time around the dining table served as a reprieve from the hard labor and toiling. His mother engaged his father in talks about politics, while Cipher would always praise her, thanking her for giving him the opportunity to focus on his blade. Meanwhile, Dante would whisper to Nyte about gambling games, offering glimpses into a world beyond training.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    There were many such moments, and Chronifer found a rhythm he enjoyed, a slow and peaceful flow. Nyte, too, seemed to be growing, his first opinion voiced during one of Slora¡¯s tea taste testing sessions, a ritual of idle luxury amidst their rigorous lives.


    Winter struck hard, colder than anything he had experienced before, but for the first time in months, Dante''s hateful shouts didn¡¯t wake him.


    Still, Chronifer rose early, tapping the sigil on the wall ¨C a habit now ingrained. Three taps and the soft light of the chandelier illuminated his room. He moved to the mirror, pausing to admire his reflection.


    Pale-golden hair tousled from sleep framed his sharp, delicate features. His golden eyes, still heavy with drowsiness, caught the light just right. ¡°Looking amazing as usual,¡± he mused, tilting his head. ¡°Truly angelic.¡±


    His skin was pale but alive, unlike Dante¡¯s ghostly complexion. His lean frame showed no outward signs of his rigorous training, but that didn¡¯t stop him from spinning in place with a wicked grin.


    ¡°Well, I look like I¡¯m going to break hearts today,¡± he declared dramatically, punctuating it with an evil laugh, although he just looked like a particularly stubborn toddler.


    His reverie broke when movement caught his eye. A flash of black hair in the mirror froze him mid-spin. His head snapped toward the figure. Slora stood there, a bemused smile on her face.


    Chronifer¡¯s stomach dropped. Kill me.


    ¡°I¡­¡± He stammered, wondering if the floorboards could swallow him whole. Slora chuckled lightly, covering her mouth.


    ¡°Happy birthday, son.¡± Her tone was soft, warm but not overly celebratory.


    Chronifer nodded stiffly, following her into the hallway. The air felt sharper, and his embarrassment clung like a second skin.


    ¡°So¡­ what now?¡± he ventured, trying to fill the silence.


    ¡°Now?¡± Slora echoed, her tone playful.


    ¡°I mean, six feels¡­ significant? You¡¯ve all been talking about it like it¡¯s special.¡±


    Slora glanced at him, her expression unreadable. ¡°Six is when children start socializing properly. It¡¯s also when formal training begins. The important part is your father¡¯s domain.¡± She paused, her gaze turning thoughtful. ¡°But there¡¯s something else you should know.¡±


    Chronifer raised a brow. ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°You may face some¡­ skepticism.¡± Her words were careful, her tone measured.


    ¡°About what?¡±


    ¡°About you being Cipher¡¯s son. Most children your age have been known to the community for six years. You, on the other hand, were officially recognized only three months ago after the Birth Moon. You look the part, your Montcroix-Wythe heritage is obvious ¨C but people love to gossip. I¡¯ve dealt with the political implications, but whispers are harder to silence.¡±


    Chronifer groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Oh, I¡¯m not going to enjoy this.


    ¡°Oh, and son, are you sure that¡¯s what you really want to wear today? The visitors may think you¡¯re taking the ball unseriously,¡± Chronifer¡¯s mother remarked with a pointed tone.


    Chronifer froze at her words, then laughed lightly. She had to be joking, right?


    ¡°Mother, you¡¯re joking... right?¡± he asked, his voice teetering between humor and disbelief. ¡°Mother?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a simple surprise party,¡± she replied, her tone dismissive. ¡°Don¡¯t overthink it. It¡¯s not just for you, but for all the kids.¡±


    Chronifer sighed, but then his panic set in. He spun on his heel and bolted back to his room to change.


    Curse this! he thought, flustered.


    Several minutes later, he finally emerged, a small mirror in hand as he meticulously adjusted his already-perfect appearance. His reflection gleamed back at him, but something about the moment felt... odd.


    Instead of heading straight to the ballroom, he made a detour to the dining room, his mind drifting toward food. As he glanced in the mirror once more, the unsettling feeling of being watched returned. He lowered it to find Nyte standing in the doorway, staring at him dubiously.


    Chronifer shrugged, offering a causal explanation. ¡°There¡¯s going to be a ball,¡± he said, as if that summed up everything.


    Nyte winced and groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. ¡°Damned Dante won¡¯t let me skip this one.¡±


    ¡°Well, then we¡¯re in this together,¡± Chronifer replied with a grin, relishing the thought of having someone else share his misery.


    He studied Nyte for a moment, noting the subtle but undeniable changes in the boy. When they first met, Nyte had been like a blank canvas, with thin tears. Now, he was becoming something more, a painting in progress. Yet Chronifer couldn¡¯t help but feel uneasy about the influences shaping him.


    Most of it came from Dante: his carefree, almost reckless demeanor had left a noticeable imprint on Nyte. But there was also a hint of Cipher in the mix, reflected in Nyte¡¯s stoic silence and reactions. Still, Nyte¡¯s personality wasn¡¯t entirely borrowed. Unlike Dante or Cipher, who thrived in the limelight, Nyte shunned it entirely. He disliked praise and loathed attention, preferring solitude over spectacle.


    Nyte had kept his promise to Chronifer, though, and had shared the name of his bloodline: Blood of the Pale.


    Chronifer had been incredibly jealous. The name was so effortlessly cool. Nyte hadn¡¯t disclosed its full description, however, citing Dante¡¯s advice: never reveal the specifics of one¡¯s bloodline.


    As they entered the dining room, Chronifer¡¯s mother had already prepared food for both boys. They devoured it with a shared enthusiasm before finally making their way to the ballroom, a place Chronifer rarely visited within the vast mansion.


    One step into the ballroom, Chronifer froze, breathless. He had attended countless award shows in his past life, but as his gaze swept over the room, he realized this was something entirely different. This was not Earth. This was another world.


    The magnificence of the ballroom was overwhelming, almost oppressive. The air shimmered with an otherworldly brilliance. For a moment, Chronifer stood motionless, caught in a tangle of emotions. There was awe, yes, but also a deep, gnawing repulsion. The sheer beauty of the room felt like a cruel contrast to the harsh reality he knew this multiverse represented. His body felt cold as flashes of memory surged: the spaceship, the books he''d read, the constant reminders that this was a world of death and hardship. He couldn¡¯t help but wonder, for a fleeting moment,  how all of this beauty would come falling down.


    Its vaulted ceilings seemed impossibly high, as if they touched the heavens themselves. Crystal chandeliers floated above, untethered and cascading a glistening light across the space. The polished black-and-gold tiles below mirrored the radiance, their inlaid patterns swirling like constellations in a starry sky. Midnight-blue walls stretched endlessly, adorned with celestial murals that gave the impression of stepping into a boundless universe. Golden balconies lined the room¡¯s edges, offering a perfect view of the grandeur below.


    Chronifer had avoided this ballroom for years. It had always felt haunting in its emptiness, cloaked in shadows that seemed to watch him. But tonight, it was alive, pulsating with brilliance, even if no one else was there except for the tables of floating food, drinks, and other extravagant delights.


    He glanced at Nyte, who seemed just as out of place as he felt. Together, the two of them drifted through the space, their movements slow and cautious, as though the room itself might swallow them.


    Time slipped by as they wandered the ballroom, until a figure stepped into view.


    It was Slora.


    She wore a playful smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief. ¡°Well,¡± she began, her voice lilting, ¡°this was actually just a joke. There¡¯s not going to be a ball.¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s face twisted in betrayal, but before he could speak, Slora raised a finger to silence him.


    ¡°But¡­¡± she continued, letting the pause hang in the air. ¡°There is going to be storytelling.¡±


    A familiar voice echoed across the room, gravelly and commanding. Dante¡¯s.


    ¡°Sit tight, lads,¡± he called from a podium at the far end of the ballroom. ¡°Here comes a story you¡¯ll never forget.¡±


    The room seemed to hold its breath as Dante began, his voice heavy with gravity.


    No doubt this was his idea. Chronifer thought with an eye roll


    ¡°This is the tale of the first mission me, Cipher, and an old friend of ours ¨CHazriel Noctis¨C ever went on. Though I should make one thing clear: Hazriel is not a coward.¡±


    Nyte arched an eyebrow, while Chronifer leaned forward, intrigued despite himself.


    ¡°It was a mission deemed impossible,¡± Dante continued, his tone grim. ¡°Countless had failed before us, young lords, princes, rising stars. All of them died. The goal? To clear a planet that had become a dungeon.¡±


    The room grew colder as Dante¡¯s words sank in.


    ¡°And the system¡¯s restriction was this: only three Rank Two''s could enter.¡±


    Before Dante could continue, the air around them seemed to ripple. A sudden, deafening buzz rang out, silencing everything.


    Chronifer froze as a message appeared before him, glowing and unmistakable:


    System Announcement!


    A new universe has been successfully integrated. Rejoice!


    The words burned into his vision, and the weight of their meaning pressed down on him.


    This was no ordinary night. This was a moment that would change his life ¨Cand the entire multiverse¨C forever.

 Chapter Ten: Words of Woman and Girls

    <h2 style="text-align: center"> Chapter Ten: Words of Woman and Girls</h2>


    <hr>


    The system message echoed in Chronifer¡¯s mind like a cold dagger. It wasn¡¯t merely a notification; it was a reminder that his former life ¨C his existence as John ¨C had been real. It wasn¡¯t a dream or a forgotten fragment of a distant past. That life was part of him, and now, it was clawing its way into his present. He could feel it in the very air: a suffocating pressure, an unbearable weight that made his heartbeat thunder. The rhythm grew frantic, pumping, surging, as if trying to answer a call he didn''t yet understand.


    Around him, his parents stood motionless. For the first time, they seemed caught off guard, their usual composure shattered as the world itself seemed to hold its breath. The air thickened, spiralling into a moment so tense it felt like reality might crack.


    System Announcement!


    A New Universe has been successfully integrated. Rejoice!


    New Universe Sealed down from outsiders.


    Duration: 36,525 Days, 24 Hours, 59 minutes, 59 seconds


    Seal Negated by Incursion challenge under system rules.


    Event for Incursion permits will be held in twelve years.


    Be prepared!


    Qualifications: Rank 1 to Rank 2


    The words reverberated through Chronifer''s body like a seismic shock. But his attention was drawn elsewhere to the change in the room.


    For a week, Nyte had shared a few stories about his parents and Dante, recounting feats that sounded larger than life. He''d described Cipher, the man who had annihilated a whole planet''s population without moving an inch. Slora, whose very name was a terror, whispered among those with secrets to hide. And Dante, the Darling of Death, whose enemies fled in droves, as though even Death itself refused to claim him.


    Until now, these tales had been nothing more than words, vivid but intangible, only hinted at by moments of extraordinary feats. But now, Chronifer felt the truth of them.


    Like a tsunami cresting the horizon, an almost visible force indescribable was unleashed from them in their shocked states.


    It was overwhelming, a power so vast it defied comprehension. It filled the air like a storm of spurs, coursing through his veins like molten sap, invading his neurons with roots that sought to rewrite his very being.


    It wasn''t just one power; it was many. He couldn''t distinguish them, only endure their combined force. One reverberated through his heart, making each beat echo as though it searched to fill a void. Another pressed against his thoughts, leaving them unmoored and untethered, drifting in an empty expanse.


    It felt like standing before something infinite -unchallenged, boundless, and waiting. A storm of contradictions tore through his mind, body, and spirit, breaking down every barrier of understanding.


    Chronifer collapsed to his knees, trembling as though his body were being rewritten at its core. His head struck the cold floor, and in that moment, through blurred vision, he caught a glimpse of Nyte. The boy was crumpled beside him, blood streaming from his nose, his eyes red and unfocused. His body was drenched in crimson, and Chronifer wasn''t sure if it was his own or another''s.


    Then the darkness came.


    It lasted less than two seconds, but it might as well have been an eternity. For the first time, Chronifer and Nyte had felt the full weight of powers that transcended mortality -powers that encroached upon realms reserved for gods.


    The two boys didn''t wake for weeks. But even as they opened their eyes again, the memory of that moment lingered, etched into their very bones.


    Chronifer woke to the sound of fierce whistling, as though the wind had found a voice and now roared with unnatural fury. The cold was a living thing, creeping into his bones and stealing his breath. His teeth clenched against the chill, and his body was drenched in a cold sweat that clung to every crevice ¨C his armpits, his palms, even the small of his back.


    The room was dim and quiet aside from the relentless wind. A faint glow came from a fire that had long since dwindled to embers, its warmth barely reaching the center of the space. Frost traced intricate patterns along the edges of the dark wooden walls, the carvings of beasts and warriors seeming to shimmer with icy breath. The floor creaked faintly under the weight of winter¡¯s chill, and the air was sharp, each inhalation cutting like glass in his throat.


    His eyes snapped open, and there she was. A woman¨Cno, a goddess at first glance¨Csat beside his bed. Her beauty was an overwhelming force, a radiance that almost blinded him. But as his senses returned, the illusion began to unravel. That purity in her features, that perfection, twisted into something darker. Her dark eyes held no warmth, only a deep, primal unease, her obsidian horns casting her away from human comfort. Her smile, curved and seemingly gentle, shifted into something sharper, more predatory. She wasn¡¯t a goddess.


    She was Oniihino, his father¡¯s first general and the Queen of Strife.


    The mistress of torment and ruin, loomed beside him. She was terrifying, yet her presence carried a familiarity that pierced through his fear, one developed from hearing his father tales of her over practice and tea. Still, Chronifer couldn¡¯t stop himself from shrinking deeper into his sheets. The memory of the pressure his parents had exuded earlier gripped him again¨Cthe weight of it, the way it made him feel insignificant, like an ant dreaming of being a sun.


    Standing beside him was another monster with such overwhelming power, he had seen her statue in the mansion before and knew of her stories told by Cipher himself.


    ¡°Darling, don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re afraid of this innocent young lady?¡± Oniihino teased, her voice dripping with playful exaggeration. Each word was accompanied by a flourish of her hands, her tone theatrical as though she were putting on a performance. She reached for a porcelain cup and saucer from a small table near the bed, handing it to him with a flourish.


    Chronifer accepted it, his hands trembling, his heart hammering faster with each passing second. He couldn¡¯t look away from her.


    ¡°As you may know, I am Oniihino, the one and only,¡± she continued with a dramatic flair, her words lilting like the opening lines of a grand speech. ¡°The most beautiful in all the worlds, universes, and dear I include the pocket realms and more. And you may call me Aunty.¡± She moved gracefully, her robes trailing behind her as she crossed from the foot of the bed to sit beside him.


    Her clothing, though casual compared to her infamous grandeur, carried an unmistakable air of timelessness. She wore a flowing robe of muted scarlet, its hem embroidered with swirling patterns reminiscent of smoke and clouds, outlined in pale gold thread. The sleeves were wide and draped gracefully as she moved, and a loose sash of dark jade cinched her waist, tied with a careless elegance. Her hair, dark as midnight, was swept into an unkempt bun secured with long pins that gleamed like polished bone. Strands of hair fell around her face, softening her sharp, otherworldly features, yet peaking from her hair were two dark horns. Despite the casualness of her attire, it carried the weight of something ancient, a style born in an age long forgotten, but still holding power and prestige.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    She placed a hand on his shoulder, startlingly light and delicate. ¡°Won¡¯t you introduce yourself to Aunty, darling?¡± she asked, her voice softening to an almost maternal tone.


    Chronifer opened his mouth, but no sound came. His hands trembled, his breathing hitched, and tears welled in his eyes without warning. The room felt distant, his body heavier than he could bear. He could hear his sobs, faint and far away, as though they weren¡¯t his own. He felt hollow, like his very being had been severed from the moment.


    Oniihino¡¯s teasing smile faltered, replaced with a flicker of distress. Her amber eyes darted around the room, searching for something unseen, her composure cracking. It was as if empathy itself was an alien concept to her. Her hands hesitated before gently cradling his face, her expression softening as she spoke again.


    ¡°Take a deep breath, darling. You¡¯ll be fine,¡± she murmured, her tone shifting to one of quiet sincerity. ¡°It¡¯ll heal over time. I¡¯m so sorry you had to experience this. Truly, I am. But don¡¯t worry. Your Aunt will be here for you.¡±


    Her words, spoken with what seemed to be uncharacteristic empathy, wrapped around him like a blanket against the winter cold. Slowly, the sharp edges of his terror dulled. A strange calm seeped into him, softening the rigid grip of fear. His body relaxed against the sheets, and his mind surrendered to the pull of sleep once more. Oniihino¡¯s hand lingered on his shoulder as his consciousness faded, her whispered words the last thing he heard.


    The wind outside howled louder, rattling the frost-kissed window panes, but within the room, a fragile, unfamiliar warmth settled.


    When Chronifer awoke once more, the room was silent and Oniihino wasn''t there by his side, his mother was nowhere to be seen as was his father and even Dante. He tried to move his hand. It obeyed there was no stiffness to it, then he tried to move his legs, he felt heavier than anything he had ever lifted. He pushed himself into a sitting position and remembered that the last time he had awoken, there was a constant whistling of the wind, he turned to look at the window and it was blurted out with thick layers of ice, whose cold seeped into the room.


    Chronifer tried to speak. ¡°Mother¡­¡± his voice was cracked and deeper than it should have been, it was husky Like his mother, it reverberated but still it was light and small like a child''s voice.


    There was no answer to his Small call.


    He rolled off the bed and tried to stand, his legs hurt, but holding his bed he managed. He looked Around Nyte was nowhere to be seen.


    His mind flashed back to his birthday, the moment that had left him bedridden and he found the memory a blur, the pain a distant memory, there but insubstantial, ugh, he turned away from the memories with a winch from a sudden violent headache like a clearer glimpse of the memories, he decided to keep away from them for the time being.


    Slowly. painfully. He walked out of the room and into a hallway red and gold, covered with paintings of different beautiful women all clad in red and cold, their dressing light and enchanting. Are these all witches?


    He continued walking along the hall, choosing random paths as he descended. Along the way, he found a clear window, and what he saw froze him to the core.


    Chronifer had known the mansion was only a fragment of the Montcroix-Wythe clan¡¯s vast domain. He was aware of the intricate sigildry workings¨Cthough not fully understanding them, the wards that cloaked the mansion, shielding it from weather and harm. Yet seeing the winter beyond the perimeter now, he realized he had been living in paradise.


    He¡¯d glimpsed the edges of the estate once, where towering spires of black and walls of night-dark metal stretched up into the clouds. He knew those imposing structures marked the Montcroix-Wythe family compound. Yet even that, vast as it was, had been nothing compared to what lay beyond.


    Now, for the first time, Chronifer beheld Onyx Thorn ¨C the city of the Montcroix-Wythe.


    The buildings rose like ancient sentinels, towering pavilions interwoven with massive trees of dark, alien wood. The layout was immaculate, a blend of natural and unnatural that felt otherworldly. But it wasn¡¯t the architecture that arrested him. It was the suffocating embrace of winter.


    The streets were buried under an ocean of snow, shimmering in a desolate, ghostly white. Spikes of jagged ice jutted from buildings, encasing walls and roofs like grotesque adornments. The cold radiated even through the glass, and not a single soul moved through the frozen expanse.


    Chronifer stared at the scene, a shiver running through him. This was Onyx Thorn ¨C a city as harsh and unyielding as the family that ruled it.


    Chronifer shivered at the unnatural sight of the city he had only heard from his mother''s stories


    How do people survive such a winter? Chronifer wandered.


    He soon moved on, however, as even the immaculate sight of the snowstorm could not hold him. As he struggled down the hallways, muffled voices began to reach his ears.


    ¡°She didn¡¯t mean any harm, Mistress Wombessa,¡± came a younger voice, soft yet tinged with defiance.


    ¡°Shut up, child,¡± replied a stern, low-pitched feminine voice, cutting her off sharply.


    Chronifer froze, pressing himself against the cold wall, straining to hear.


    ¡°Mistress Womb¡­¡± another voice stammered, trailing off with a sharp intake of breath, as if in fear.


    Silence hung in the air, heavy and oppressive, before the chilling voice returned.


    ¡°What do you have to say for yourself, Shully?¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± The girl¡¯s voice faltered, her words drowned out as the first speaker jumped in again.


    ¡°Mistress Wombessa, it wasn¡¯t her fault¡ª¡±


    A sharp cracking sound interrupted her defense. A slap? Chronifer wondered, his brow furrowing.


    ¡°You do not, ever, interrupt me,¡± Wombessa said, her voice deliberate and slow, each word a blade cutting through the air. ¡°Now, Shully?¡±


    Soft sobs reached Chronifer¡¯s ears, faint and muffled.


    ¡°Tensasa¡­ she was using Ruhira,¡± Shully¡¯s shaky voice continued, trembling but steady enough to make her point.


    ¡°How does that concern you?¡± Wombessa snapped, her tone icy and unforgiving.


    ¡°It does,¡± Shully cut in again, her voice firmer this time.


    Another sharp sound echoed ¨C a second slap, yet the girl did not falter. ¡°I¡­ I, why don¡¯t you and Oniihino protect her more? She¡¯s the kindest person here, and you¡­¡±


    ¡°Enough.¡± Wombessa¡¯s voice dropped, low and menacing. ¡°You will go to the west tower and apologize to Lucene for assaulting her pupil.¡± A pause lingered, as heavy as the silence before a storm. ¡°Now.¡±


    Hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway, fading into the distance.


    Chronifer¡¯s breath hitched as Wombessa addressed one of the remaining girls. ¡°Tensasa, why do you feel you can order Ruhira around? Is it because of her kindness? Because she doesn¡¯t know when someone¡¯s requests are out of hand?¡±


    Though the question was directed at Tensasa, Chronifer had the distinct feeling the reprimand was meant for Ruhira, if she indeed was the first girl to speak, but Chronifer was only guessing.


    ¡°Do not answer,¡± Wombessa commanded, cutting through any attempt at a reply. ¡°Now, get lost.¡±


    The faint sobs of the girl were swallowed by the sound of retreating footsteps.


    Chronifer began creeping forward again, careful to avoid detection.


    ¡°Go and find your mistress,¡± Wombessa said suddenly to the remaining girl, her voice carrying a sinister edge. ¡°And pick up her visitor. Let no one see him.¡±


    A door slammed shut, leaving Chronifer with a racing heart.


    Had she seen me? he wondered.

 Chapter Eleven: A Place of Witches

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Eleven: A Place of Witches</h2>


    <hr>


    Chronifer only froze for a fraction of a second before shifting his stance, resting his back against the wall and placing one leg up casually. Folding his arms, he thought wryly, I might as well go down looking cool. It wasn¡¯t likely he was in real trouble¨Cafter all, she¡¯d called him ¡®visitor.¡¯ That was at least one point in his favor.


    He wasn¡¯t prepared for what he saw next. The girl who emerged from the curve in the hallway was... breathtaking. It wasn¡¯t just her beauty, though that alone was enough to stagger him. It was something more¨Csomething unplaceable that made her feel otherworldly. He forced himself to look at her forehead rather than her face, but the image lingered, unbidden, in his mind.


    Her sharp features carried a softness, offset by her deep green hair¨Can unusual color that shimmered as if kissed by moonlight. Her pupils'' amber. Her eyes, puffy from tears, glowed beneath oversized gold-framed glasses, their light a quiet defiance against whatever sorrow had touched her. Dangling emerald earrings swayed gently as she walked, each step a study in grace. The soft coral of her lips contrasted with her fair skin, a single vibrant note in an otherwise muted palette.


    Her attire, too, caught his attention. The dress shared similarities with the garments worn by his father and even himself, rooted in the same traditional aesthetic, but it carried a distinct elegance that set it apart. Its floor-length skirt flowed in deep violet hues, shifting to a wine-red gradient at the hem, like a sunset caught in motion. Gold embroidery danced across the fitted bodice, accentuating her figure, while loose, sheer sleeves lent an ethereal quality to her movements. The style reminded him of the structured grace his father often favored, yet it was unlike the fashions of his mother and Dante. Even her heels ¨C ornate, golden patterns glinting with each step ¨C seemed crafted for someone accustomed to commanding attention.


    ¡°Hey,¡± she said softly, her smile breaking through the traces of her earlier tears. ¡°I¡¯m Ruhira, pupil of High Mistress Oniihino. She mentioned she had a special visitor¡­ who shouldn¡¯t be seen¡­¡± She gestured for him to follow.


    ¡°Where are we going?¡± Chronifer asked, keeping his tone neutral and deciding not to introduce himself just yet.


    ¡°Your room. High Mistress Oniihino will probably meet you there this evening.¡± Her steps were deliberate, unhurried, as she glanced back at him. ¡°You don¡¯t look like the High Mistress, though. She called you her nephew.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Chronifer hesitated, weighing his options before settling on the simplest explanation. ¡°It¡¯s a distant relation.¡±


    ¡°Hmm. I don¡¯t believe you,¡± she said with a startling frankness. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but she said you and your friend are her nephews. He¡¯s a Sitsi¡¯an¨Cnot even half-human, pure. You¡¯re human, which is believable, but you look more like¡­¡±


    Her words trailed off, and her expression shifted as realization struck.


    ¡°You¡¯re the Montcroix-Wythe son¨Cthe one who didn¡¯t get the birthmoon.¡±


    Chronifer sighed, the weight of recognition pressing down on him. With a small, dramatic bow, he replied, ¡°I¡¯m Chronifer Montcroix-Wythe. Nice to meet you. You mentioned my friend. Where can I find him?¡±


    For a moment, Ruhira froze, her amber eyes wide as she studied him closely. Then, with surprising grace, she dropped to one knee and bowed deeply. ¡°My liege, this Sister greets you.¡±


    Chronifer blinked, caught completely off-guard. He stammered the first thing that came to mind. ¡°Uh¡­ you may stand?¡±


    She rose quickly, though her sudden deference left Chronifer grappling with a new, uncomfortable thought: Was he seen as royalty? A young master?


    ¡°W-welcome to the Jade Coven,¡± she said, her voice faltering as though unsure how to address him now.


    Jade Coven? The name intrigued him. That sounds amazing. But instead, he asked, ¡°My friend, where is he?¡± Clearing his throat, he added, ¡°And what¡¯s the Coven about?¡±


    ¡°Your friend was carried off by one of my master''s comrades, who I now guess was¡­ was Cowardicelore¡­¡± Her eyes darted around as she spoke the name.


    So Dante took him. I hope he''s fine. What about my parents?


    After a moment or two after nothing happened, she seemed to remember his other question. ¡°You don¡¯t know? The Jade Coven is one of the main powers in Onyx Thorn. Some even count it among the great families under your clan.¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s confusion must have been plain on his face. He avoided her gaze, suddenly finding the walls more interesting.


    ¡°Well,¡± he started carefully, ¡°to be fair, my education was focused elsewhere ¨C fighting, monsters, survival.¡± He shrugged, his voice husky yet still holding a pronounced childishness. ¡°Family politics wasn¡¯t exactly a priority.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t blaming you,¡± she said softly, her tone carrying a sincerity that caught him off-guard. ¡°Sorry¡­¡±


    Her apology was genuine, not the hollow kind meant to soothe pride. Chronifer noted this, appreciating it more than he cared to admit.


    ¡°I don¡¯t mind telling you about the Jade Coven¨Cor the other families¨Cat least what I know about them,¡± she offered, her voice steadying. ¡°If you don¡¯t mind listening.¡±


    Chronifer smiled, extending his hand with deliberate confidence. ¡°Certainly, Ruhira?¡±


    ¡°Ruhira,¡± she confirmed, clasping his hand firmly, though a slight tremor betrayed her nerves. ¡°Pupil of High Mistress Oniihino and former daughter of the Nocthegen family.¡±


    The formality of her introduction seemed to anchor her, her shoulders relaxing slightly. Yet a flicker of unease remained in her emerald-green eyes.


    ¡°Well,¡± she began, smoothing her glasses with a deliberate motion. ¡°The Jade Coven is part of the Caj¡¯malarie ¨C or, as some might translate it, the Witch Sisters. Though the Endless tongue doesn¡¯t quite capture the depth of the meaning.¡±


    Caj¡¯malarie means Witch Sister. So calling herself a sister fits, I guess. Chronifer almost shrugged but stopped himself, watching her adjust her glasses again, her face brightening with enthusiasm.


    ¡°The Caj¡¯malarie,¡± she continued, her voice gaining momentum, ¡°is led by High Mistress Oniihino, who also oversees all the coven leaders. She¡¯s the head of heads, so to speak.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± Chronifer interrupted, raising a hand, his curiosity piqued. ¡°Does she have her own coven? I mean, I saw her here not long ago.¡±


    Ruhira smiled softly, as though indulging a child¡¯s earnest question. ¡°Why would she need a coven when she already commands them all? Every coven leader answers to her.¡±


    Chronifer nodded slowly. That¡­ makes sense, I guess.


    ¡°Although,¡± Ruhira added, her tone lightening with a hint of pride, ¡°the High Mistress does favor the Jade Coven. It¡¯s where her office is, after all, and where the entire Caj¡¯malarie began. You could say it¡¯s the heart of everything.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± Chronifer muttered. ¡°But if she¡¯s in charge of everyone, does the Jade Coven even have its own leader?¡±


    Ruhira chuckled, the sound soft and amused. ¡°Funny you asked. You¡¯ve already met her, Under Mistress Wombessa, the leader of the Jade Coven and High Mistress Oniihino¡¯s right hand.¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Chronifer said, the memory clicking into place. He hesitated, recalling the sounds of harsh slaps from earlier. ¡°And the other covens? Are their leaders¡­ different?¡±


    ¡°I bet.¡± She began. ¡°From what I hear, the only Under Mistress as harsh as Wombessa is Ba¡¯awolewa of the Shagus Clan Coven. The others are¡­ easier to work with, or so they say.¡± She said conversationally, adjusting her glasses.


    So each clan within the spiral has a coven. He thought.


    Pale light poured in through the evenly spaced windows, each beam shimmering faintly as it broke through thick layers of ice clinging stubbornly to the glass. The reddish stone walls radiated a low, steady heat that seemed at odds with the frost outside. Carved into the stone were intricate designs that shifted subtly in the flickering light, as though alive, watching, waiting.


    Chronifer in a moment of silent went through the knowledge he had acquired.


    First was the name Shagus, he only knew of his Clan and the Shinasho¡¯s due to his father surprising hate of their jokes and now he knew one more the Shagus. He had also noted the fact that Ruhira had introduced herself has Oniihions student which he surmised made her very important, he also did not miss her calling Wombessa Oniihinos right hand woman, or the name of the Shagus under mistress.


    But before he could continue his series of shockingly fast thought threads Ruhira spoke. ¡°... Shully is the real unlucky one.¡±


    ¡°Sorry I didn¡¯t hear you?¡± He asked.


    ¡°No, it¡¯s nothing,¡± Ruhira said, with a small smile.


    ¡°What do you guys do?¡± Ruhira who''s walking pace had increased significantly tilted her head at that. ¡°The Caj''malarie.¡±


    ¡°Oh, simple actually,¡± She began in understanding. ¡°We are masters at politics, business and teaching. Look into the politics, business and education systems of the Spiral and you''ll find us there. We also do a bit of other things¡­¡± She ended with a mysterious edge.


    Chronifer immediately asked about the ¡°other things,¡± but Ruhira, clearly in a playful mood, began teasing him with non-answers.


    After a bit of silence filled only by the melodic steps of both Chronifer and Ruhira after her teasing, Chronifer offered another question.¡°Is there anything else i need to know?¡± he said.


    ¡°Oh, you need to know everything,¡± Ruhira replied with a sly smile as they climbed another staircase. The steps felt strangely warm beneath his slippers, faint grooves worn into the stone from countless years of use. ¡°Otherwise, you might cause a war ¨C or worse, a feud.¡± She seemed more at ease now, her tone growing playful.


    ¡°The Caj''malarie, like most organizations in the multiverse, exists to gain power. But we also help¡­ as advisors, mostly. Of course, we''re known for our darker work. Plagues, catastrophes, the kind of destruction that makes the multiverse tremble.¡±


    She turned, a smile curling on her lips, but her eyes gleamed with something darker. Chronifer shivered. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her knuckles white ¨C a signal of something restrained, something volatile beneath her calm exterior. ¡°Imagine starting a feud with us.¡±


    Chronifer was amazed and by the shaking of his hands, scared. The light flickered faintly across the stone walls, casting fleeting shadows that danced like specters. Yet So much power, he thought. This was real power, the kind that had been unattainable in his past life as John, constrained by rules, reality, and his own insignificance, in the grand scheme of the existence he had known.


    But here, his limit wasn¡¯t shallow, or made so by the very rules of existence, no.


    Here, his limit was boundless.


    Their conversation continued as they ascended, the winding stairs seeming endless. Chronifer glanced back, surprised by how far they had climbed. His legs burned faintly, but the steady warmth emanating from the walls helped ease the strain.


    Ruhira, undeterred, continued her lesson. ¡°On the topic of the great families, there are fourteen under the Montcroix-Wythe. I don¡¯t know everything about them, but I can at least tell you their names. It¡¯ll help you recognize someone when they inevitably try to impress ¨C or threaten ¨C you with their lineage.¡±


    ¡°Go on,¡± Chronifer prompted, curiosity piqued.


    ¡°There are the Nocthegn,¡± she began, then paused, glancing at him with a wry smile.


    Chronifer caught the look and frowned. ¡°Oh, oh.¡± He exclaimed in realization. ¡°You¡¯re from one of the great families.¡±


    ¡°I was part of one,¡± she replied, her tone shifting slightly. ¡°I¡¯ve moved on.¡±


    Chronifer noted the subtle edge in her voice¡ªpride mixed with something deeper, more guarded. He thought to press her for details but held back, filing it away for later.


    ¡°Anyhow,¡± Ruhira continued briskly, ¡°then there¡¯s the Dreuxmore. They¡¯re basically strategic geniuses, generation after generation. I bet it¡¯ll still be the same now.¡± She climbed another step, her voice bouncing lightly off the stone walls. ¡°Then there¡¯s L¨¦ovarre, Scaevus, Morcaide, Tou¡¯ken, Lofthan, Oranxi, Thrivlanky, Polack-Dot, Vorrik, Azielis, S¨¦lian, and Drosian.¡±


    Chronifer tilted his head. ¡°That¡¯s it? You¡¯re not going to tell me anything about them?¡±


    Ruhira sighed, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but my knowledge of them is... patchy at best. The Nocthegen, Dreuxmore, and maybe the Vorrik, I could give you something on them. The rest? They¡¯re just names to me.¡±


    He hummed thoughtfully. ¡°Still, knowing the names is a good start.¡±


    Ruhira nodded, continuing up the stairs. ¡°Just remember, every one of them will have a reputation they expect you to know. A single misstep, like calling someone a Polack when they¡¯re a L¨¦ovarre, could cost you an ally or gain you an enemy.¡±


    Chronifer chuckled dryly. ¡°Sounds exhausting.¡±


    ¡°Oh, it is,¡± she replied with a grin. ¡°But that¡¯s the price of power. You¡¯ll figure it out soon enough.¡±


    Chronifer raised an eyebrow. ¡°But... Can I really make an enemy of them? Aren¡¯t they all under the Montcroix-Wythe clan?¡±


    Ruhira laughed, a sharp, knowing sound. ¡°Oh, absolutely. You could gain an enemy easily. They might refuse to work with you ¨C no trade, no diplomacy, no missions. And that kind of blow can cost you far more than you''d think.¡±


    Hmm, stressful. She seems to know a lot about politics. I see the advisor part of the Witches now.


    A silence fell between them as they continued walking, the faint echoes of their footsteps the only sound in the air. Chronifer felt the weight of a choice lingering. He could keep her at arm¡¯s length, like so many others from his past life, or...


    ¡°Do you want to be friends?¡± Chronifer asked, his tone light but sincere. ¡°You can tell me all your witch stuff and stop by to visit me every now and then.¡±


    They reached his room just as he finished, the curved hallways behind them giving way to a private space.


    ¡°Sure thing, Chronifer,¡± Ruhira replied with a smile, waving as she turned to leave.


    He walked into the small room and shut the door. Almost immediately, boredom assaulted him like relentless waves. There was no book to read, no sword to practice with ¨C only the monotony of silence. Sleep seemed like the only escape.


    But it didn¡¯t last long.


    ¡°Darling, are you going to sleep through my visit again?¡± Oniihino¡¯s voice, smooth and lilting, slipped into his dreams. ¡°Although, you should know, I¡¯ll be away for a few days.¡±


    Chronifer¡¯s eyes snapped open, his heart already racing.


    ¡°Up, up now, darling,¡± Oniihino said lightly, standing at the foot of his bed. Her garment was as stylish as ever, a rich emerald hue that shimmered faintly under the dim light. Her figure was graceful, charming, yet predatory.


    ¡°Good day¡­¡± Chronifer hesitated, unsure how to address her.


    ¡°Oh, dear, just call me Aunty¨Cor even ¡®dear¡¯ if you prefer,¡± she suggested with an amused calm, moving closer to sit at the edge of the bed.


    ¡°Good day, Aunty,¡± he said cautiously, instinctively shuffling a fraction away. Her presence felt overwhelming, like a storm contained within a human form. Yet, she only smiled, shifting slightly closer.


    Ugh. This woman.


    ¡°The Council has summoned the new generation of the Spiral to the Eyeless Center in one week,¡± she began, her tone both pitying and knowing. ¡°I¡¯ll escort you when the time comes, but let me warn you now¨Cyour life is about to become Damnation. Truly.¡±


    Her words hung in the air, heavy with foreboding.


    ¡°I know your education has been¡­ limited, but let me tell you this: everything will soon descend into chaos. Bedlam. Most will not survive what¡¯s coming. Your parents were wise to begin your training in the arts first. These days you have left, these fleeting days of peace¨Cwill be the last you¡¯ll know for years. Rest while you can.¡±


    Chronifer wanted to speak, to ask a dozen questions about his parents or what she meant by ¡®bedlam,¡¯ but his tongue felt heavy, his mind reeling.


    ¡°Your parents are caught up in the Council¡¯s plans,¡± she continued, her voice softer now. ¡°You won¡¯t be seeing them anytime soon.¡± She paused, her eyes briefly meeting his, something almost maternal flickering there.


    Before he could respond, she stood. The air around her seemed to shift as though the room bent to her presence.


    ¡°For now, I¡¯ll leave you with these words¡± she said, her voice steady and formal. Then like a memory she was gone and like a storm Chronifer¡¯s mind thundered Into motion.


    "What bedlam?" Chronifer whispered to the empty room, his heart a drumbeat of dread.

 Chapter Twelve: Show Me Your Most Vile Creation

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Twelve: Show Me Your Most Vile Creation </h2>


    <hr>


    The dread drove into Chronifer¡¯s heart like a stab, his mind only now fully awakening as it quivered against Oniihino¡¯s words. His thoughts churned, relentless and suffocating, each question mounting one after another, yet despite the promise of chaos, death, and change, he found a strange sense of quiet. He had expected this¨Cthe very thing his training had prepared him for. No longer lost in the illusion of a world tilting toward ruin, he stood at its edge¨Cand that, in itself, calmed him, if only a little. The danger loomed, yes, but it was no longer an unseen event, a distant shadow beyond the horizon. He could feel it now¨Ccloser, more tangible¨Cbut still beyond his comprehension.


    His mind still quivered at an unknown danger. What form of chaos lay ahead? What bedlam stood before him? And would his training¨Cshort as it was¨Cbe enough to help him?


    More questions lingered: When would he see his parents again? Who were these mysterious Council members? And was all of this tied to the Integration? He believed it was, but he couldn¡¯t be sure.


    With a deep sigh, he sank back into the softness of his bed, his eyes drifting toward the frozen world outside the glass. His heart raced, beating in time with the steady rhythm of fear


    <hr>


    The next morning, a sharp knock jolted him awake. Chronifer groaned, his mind foggy and his body sluggish as he swung open the door. Standing there was a new face looking down at him.


    The girl before him exuded an air of youthful mischief, her jet-black hair cut into a tousled bob that framed her sharp features. Tattoos of intricate designs peeked from under her sleeves, winding like tendrils along her pale arms. She stood with the kind of nonchalance that suggested she was used to being where she didn¡¯t belong, her intense eyes glimmering with amusement.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Chronifer grumbled, irritated at the intrusion.


    He groaned inwardly. I thought I wasn¡¯t supposed to be seen. But¡­ why?


    The girl opened her mouth to respond, but she was promptly pushed aside by a more familiar figure: Ruhira.


    ¡°She¡¯s Shully,¡± Ruhira explained, her voice steady as she shifted a stack of books in her arms. ¡°My best friend and pupil of Mistress Wombessa.¡±


    ¡°Good morning!¡± Shully chimed with a grin. ¡°Can we come in?¡±


    Chronifer sighed, stepping aside. He wasn¡¯t particularly in the mood for company, but resistance felt pointless.


    ¡°Sure,¡± he muttered.


    The girls entered, heading straight to the small wooden desk in the corner of the room. They deposited the books with an audible thud before turning their attention back to him. Chronifer shuffled back toward the bed, still trying to shake off his grogginess.


    Shully leaned conspiratorially toward him, her grin widening. ¡°So, I hear you¡¯re a Montcroix-Wythe. Did you know there are rumors going around? About you?¡±


    ¡°Shully,¡± Ruhira interjected sharply, drawing her friend¡¯s name out in a slow warning tone, although her expression said she was interested


    ¡°What? I don¡¯t believe them,¡± Shully said with a mock-innocent shrug, her playful demeanor unshaken. ¡°But you know, girls talk. I hear things.¡±


    Chronifer groaned, rubbing his temple. ¡°I¡¯m well aware of what people say. Could you let me wake up properly first? And by the way, where do I even take a bath? I smell awful.¡±


    Ruhira winced apologetically. ¡°That¡¯s... a bit of a problem. This wing doesn¡¯t actually have a bath. You¡¯ll have to manage for the week.¡±


    Chronifer stared at her, unblinking. His left eye twitched.


    ¡°Great,¡± he muttered, sinking back onto the bed.


    Shully giggled, plopping down in the chair beside the desk. ¡°You¡¯re going to love it here, Montcroix-Wythe. No baths, endless rumors, and the most charming company. What more could you want?¡±


    ¡°Shully,¡± Ruhira scolded again, shooting her friend a glare.


    But Shully only laughed, her playful energy undiminished. Chronifer buried his face in his hands. It was going to be a long week.


    ¡°We''ve been tasked with building a blueprint for our leaves, at least one from each branch,¡± Ruhira said, her voice filled with eager determination. ¡°And both the High Mistress and Under Mistress said you could help us. What do you think?¡±


    Chronifer was out of his bed in an instant.


    ¡°I¡¯m so in!¡± he replied, his eyes shining. ¡°So, what are we doing?¡±


    Chronifer had learned about blueprints from the book A Tree Within. He was hooked on the concept and eager to gain some practical experience. Although they would need¡­


    ¡°Well, both of you can do mine,¡± Shully said, stretching as if she had just woken up. ¡°I slept late last night.¡±


    Chronifer glanced at Shully, noticing something. She didn¡¯t bow or do anything formal, something he had expected when meeting people. Strange. He made a mental note to ask Ruhira about it later.


    ¡°No, you''re not getting out of this one,¡± Ruhira reprimanded, sending a stern look at her friend. ¡°But don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll help you.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what are we doing?¡± Chronifer asked, eager to move forward.


    Ruhira had to be the kindest person he¡¯d met in this life. He looked at her as she opened her mouth to explain, a flicker of doubt passing through his mind. I hope she survives through it.


    ¡°Well, we¡¯ll be working on three of my branches and two of Shully¡¯s,¡± she explained, pulling out some books. ¡°Creating a leaf is always difficult because of the need to chase uniqueness.¡± She brought out three thick blackish leather objects from the stack and placed them on the table.


    Chronifer walked up to them. ¡°Are these¡­¡±


    ¡°Yeah, Architect''s Ledgers!¡± Shully said, placing her palms on his shoulders. Chronifer was about to react, but her next words sent him into a fit of laughter. ¡°Where all ideas go to get a reality check of how mundane they are.¡±


    The author of A Tree Within had used a similar phrase. Chronifer smiled, feeling a bit of comfort slip in as he finally felt on steady ground. His mother¡¯s education had prepared him for most of this.


    I¡¯m definitely not dumb. I know enough about the Soul Tree and essence flow control, although that won¡¯t be useful until I¡¯m sixteen. But I can work with this.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    ¡°So¡­¡± Chronifer hesitated, knowing that asking about people¡¯s branches could be a sensitive matter. ¡°What are your branches?¡±


    ¡°Oh, sorry,¡± Ruhira began, a touch of frustration in her voice. ¡°Mine are quite rare and a bit hard to work with. High Mistress Oniihino says it¡¯s a good thing, lots of the leaves I create turn out unique, but it¡¯s super hard to create what¡¯s expected of a witch from them and have the idea get a good potential rating.¡±


    Chronifer could feel her frustration, but he wasn¡¯t the one to ease her mind.


    ¡°I keep telling you, your branches are cool,¡± Shully said, peeling her hands off Chronifer¡¯s shoulders and slinging an arm around Ruhira¡¯s. ¡°You just haven''t seen it yet. One day, people are going to want your branches.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Shully,¡± Ruhira said, seeming to regain her enthusiasm.


    ¡°Just telling the truth,¡± Shully assured her.


    ¡°Hmm, my branches are: Scarlet, Sanguine, Crimson, and Ruby. That¡¯s it.¡±


    ¡°Wow, that¡¯s going to be a lot of fun to work with,¡± Chronifer said, his mind blanking on ideas. Well, I never said I would have any ideas. He excused his vacant mind.


    ¡°You think so?¡± Ruhira asked, her smile hopeful. ¡°Do you have any ideas?¡±


    ¡°Well, I need to hear what these expectations for a witch¡¯s leaves are first,¡± Chronifer said


    ¡°Oh sure.¡± Ruhira said, her voice sharpening with clarity. ¡°A witch''s leaves are meant to embody absolute power¨Cno limits, no rules¨Cjust the raw ability to take what should never belong to us. Life, death, emotions, the elements, even time itself¨Call of it is ours to twist, corrupt, and remake as we see fit. It¡¯s about breaking the world apart and putting it back together in ways that make people fear what you¡¯ll do next, but that can also be of assistance to allies. That¡¯s what¡¯s expected of a witch. And my branches¡­ well, they don¡¯t always give me that kind of control.¡±


    Chronifer looked at her, remembering her words in the stairwell.


    Okay, so witches are absolutely wmd¡¯S but there''s more than that explanation though¡­ He thought his mind connecting dots between his image of the Caj''malarie and the expectations.


    ¡°What about you, Shully?¡± He turned to the other girl, curious about her reply.


    ¡°I was getting jealous you didn¡¯t care,¡± Shully said, dramatically wiping her eyes. ¡°Anyway, mine are¡­¡± She took a few steps back.


    ¡°Scale,¡± she said, mimicking the movement of a scale with her two palms measuring, judging. ¡°Oaths.¡± She linked her fingers together like a chain, connecting, holding. ¡°Bound.¡± She disconnected her linked fingers in a quick motion, clasping her fists around each wrist, subduing, limiting. ¡°Shatter.¡± She traced her hands slowly across her skin, then wrapped them into tight fists. She opened both hands in a sharp movement, destroying, severing.


    Chronifer was intrigued and found himself applauding. Shully seemed pleased and bowed with one fist clasped within the other.


    "That''s a solid list of branches, easy to think up things with. But the uniqueness and potential can be tricky," Chronifer said with a smile. "Anyway, don''t either of you have any ideas?"


    "I''ve run out," Ruhira admitted. "I get fifty to eighty percent uniqueness, but the potentials are all between zero and twenty."


    Chronifer patted her forearm, since he couldn¡¯t reach her shoulders. Then he turned to Shully, who was shaping up to be a fun addition to their work.


    "Well, I think I¡¯ve got one or two, maybe three or four... It''s hard to keep track," she replied to his look.


    "Well, try them out. Let me see," Chronifer urged. He caught Ruhira shaking her head by his side. I''m definitely going to think of something.


    "Okay, little man, okay," she said, walking over to the armchair. She picked up a golden quill lined with golden feathers.


    I''ve definitely got to grow up, how do they even take me seriously? He thought looking at the ground which seemed ready to kiss him.


    Chronifer stood beside her, intrigued, while Ruhira stood behind the chair, her eyebrows raised.


    Shully¡¯s hand moved decisively, and as the quill touched the Architect''s Ledger, golden light erupted, as though she had cracked the surface of the Ledger. Chronifer¡¯s eyes widened with a gleam; the quill didn''t move, but he could see ghostly flickers of gold, like shadows of Shully''s hand moving across the leather surface of the Ledger, writing in the depiction of the endless tongue. More cracks appeared across the leather surface of the Ledger, and below, two percentage counters fluctuated, jumping between zero and one hundred percent.


    Then it all ended, the gold vanishing as if it were a fleeting dream.


    But then the two percentage counters appeared once more, this time settling at the center of the leather surface of the Ledger, revealing the potential and uniqueness of Shully¡¯s idea.


    Uniqueness (45.08%)


    Potential (69.99%)


    ¡°That looked amazing.¡± Chronifer exclaimed the first flashy mystical sight he had seen. I wonder what the mechanics behind it. Well, whatever.


    Ruhira looked at him then she smiled darkly, ¡°you won''t be saying that for much longer.¡± She said her voice was eerie.


    ¡°Another bad one.¡± Shully mumbled frustrated. ¡°Ahh, how are we supposed to get both ninety to hundred percent on both  uniqueness and potential?¡± She said her voice sounded too dramatic.


    Shully looked ready to cry, Chronifer didn''t know if he was supposed to believe her emotions but he just held her shoulder for assurance, although he didn¡¯t really care, he just wanted to put a quill on the leather and go wild but then something caught his attention, her skin cold against his palm, almost like that of a snake. Weird, Chronifer thought but tried not to react.


    ¡°Okay then, let me give this a try.¡± Ruhira said, tapping Shully to stand up. She sat down and began the process once more, Chronifer stood by her side for the first minute in amazement, after the second he looked at Shully, she only offered a shrug, her face passive. She sat on the bedside, like that the minutes passed and turned to hours. Chronfier not knowing when Shully had slept off.


    He sat on the floor by the side of the bed, his boredom mounted and he began thinking of an idea for Ruhira branches, with the minutes his idea grew from an unrealised mess to something sensible and from there made slow progress.


    ¡°Is this supposed to take this long?¡± He mumbled, not expecting an answer.


    ¡°Yes, for more intricate ideas it takes anywhere from one to eleven hours.¡± Shully offered as she sat up.


    She giggled. ¡°You know what I did back there was a basic practical example to show someone.¡± She giggled as if she''d been waiting for him to ask that question.


    ¡°You¡­ you made me feel it only took a few minutes.¡± Chronifer accused, his small yet husky voice sounding betrayed. Damned the tree within for only touching upon the ledger and not fully exploring it.


    ¡°Yeah, and it''s always fun to watch.¡± Shully laughed. ¡°Well, I am sorry about it, but I really couldn''t help myself and don''t forget Ruhira knew as well.¡± She said innocently then mumbled, ¡°too bad she didn''t get to see your reaction.¡±


    Chronifer sighed, that was when the hunger hit him, and his stomach didn''t wait before making its emptiness privy to the world. It growled, drawing Shully¡¯s attention and Chronifer¡¯s embarrassment.


    ¡°I''m famished.¡± Chronifer said in a low voice. He sighed, how do I even get food?


    Shully ruffled his hair, then jumped off the bed and walked majestically to the door. ¡°I''ll be back with some goodies.¡± She smiled, her shine raised up like that of a hero. ¡°You''re going to lend me a hand with my branches though, right?¡± She asked puffed chested.


    ¡°Certainly.¡± He said, God , anything for food.


    She opened the door. ¡°Maybe a child''s idea would certainly work.¡± And then she was gone, Chronifer left eye twitched once more, he took in a deep breath and sighed he supposed he had to remember he was still a short little kid.


    Not long after that Ruhira stared and Chronifer was on his feet in an instant, gaze glued to the Architect''s Ledger.


    Once again the golden light vanished and then a few seconds after reappeared.


    Uniqueness (90.97%)


    Potential (80.99%)


    ¡°Fuck this!¡± Exclaimed Ruhira, slapping the Ledger away. One look at Chronifer and all her anger drained away. ¡°I''m so sorry, Just a little point and I would have had it. It''s really frustrating. I''m so sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no issue,¡± he offered but rephrased, when he saw that her eyes were getting moist. ¡°Don''t worry I''ve got quite the idea. I just need a bit of food¡­¡±


    Shelly slammed into the room with a full tray of food and a silly smile on her face. Well, here we go.

 Chapter Thirteen: O’Cunning Witch

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Thirteen: O¡¯Cunning Witch</h2>


    <hr>


    ¡°Are you sure you''ve got all the procedures down?¡± Ruhira asked her emerald eyes, gazing unblinking, her coral painted lips pinched into a line.


    ¡°I''ve definitely got it.¡± Chronifer assured for the umpteenth time, rolling his eyes.


    He Packed his pale golden hair into a man bun, and proceeded to scratch at his neck it itched fiercely, Just the first day and I''m already dying. Chronifer wondered what will become of his completion.


    ¡°Okay then, here goes nothing.¡± He said, pushing past his fear of losing his clear skin.


    Chronifer lowered his oily hands clasped around the quill to the Architect''s Ledger and¡­ Nothing happened, except from a giggle escaping Shully. It sounded like she had been trying to suppress it, then like a dam it burst out of her in spurts.


    Chronifer turned to her, her silence through most of Ruhira''s more detailed explanation over their snack break on how to use the Ledger now seemed suspicious.What had we been missing?


    ¡°You¡­ you guys looked so serious.¡± She said pushed out between fits of laughter. ¡°Ahh, tell me how did you guys expect to use the Ledger without essence?¡± Shully asked with a teasing smile that promised a joke of whoever answered it.


    How could I have forgotten about that? Chronifer thought embarrassed at his total and utter folly, he slowly looked away from the girl and faced the Ledger.


    ¡°Oh, he really hasn''t unlocked his essence yet¡­ and besides that¡­¡± Ruhira began with a sheepish smile. ¡°He won''t be able to work on my branches without channeling essence through it.¡±


    Shully burst into another fit of laughter. ¡°Your look of realization is just amazing.¡± Looking at her friend Ruhira seemed to find the whole situation funny and burst into laughter as well, both laughter grew as they seemed to feed off each other''s manic laughter until only coughs seemed left of the joy.


    Chronifer unfortunately did not find the situation funny, he had just wanted the moment to pass quickly, instead the opposite.


    He knew Essence would only be available to him when he reached sixteen and also the ability to unlock his branches but his mind seemed to have skipped that fact.


    ¡°Ahh, that was fun,¡± Shully entoned in a fulfilled voice. ¡°The child lord here, probably still has the restricted system, and is far from having his soul tree accept essence. And like you mentioned, Ruhira, you have to channel the essence, even if he had the essence to make the Ledger work, since it''s with your branches you need to channel the essence through his hand.¡± She took in a small inhale and smiled smugly.


    ¡°Aww, thank you, you''re the absolute best.¡± Rubira praised her friend, who seemed to glow under the praise.


    ¡°It''s nothing, I''m just built like a sage.¡± Shully agreed, nodding with an accepting smile.


    ¡°Okay then, let''s do this.¡± Chronifer exclaimed once more. Silence. Then the two girls burst into laughter again for another long agonising minutes.


    God, is this the crime of mistakes.


    When they finally stopped, Shully seemed to have gotten her fill of laughter and actually gave them instructions, Ruhira placed her hand over Chronifers. Her soft pale palms covered him entirely and he could only curse his body as to how small it was.


    ¡°Are you ready?¡± She asked, standing at the side of the desk. He didn''t answer immediately, he turned to the window and saw that the Pale sunlight still shone beyond the window, it seemed they were in the late afternoon, he took in a breath and then nodded slowly.


    ¡°Yes, you know the branch already.¡± He answered. Dropping his hand, this time with less fanfare and reverence.


    The vertigo slammed into him like a barrage, he felt like he had been spun around for hours and was let loose violently, his eyes saw countless colours of lights, his ears heard a shirking whistling noise that seemed to unleash spikes of pain straight into his brain, his heart sounded like a chaotic engine pump sparking embers into flames.


    Like a rising tidal wave the feelings mounted, climbing like a unending storm leaving disasters and wreaking havoc and then¡­ utter and pure quiet, like he had been tossed into the eye of the storm and he found peace, and then before him like Rubira had tried to described he saw an endless constellation of stars, only it was so much more than her words could capture, Chronifer froze awestruck.


    This¡­ this is beautiful.


    Before him the Constellation of stars blazed like multiple suns, their colours varying, like a kaleidoscope of colours, and every single one of them not just sounded but slammed meaning into his mind.


    There was no explanation befitting the impartment of knowledge but there before him, one thundered its meaning like a burst artery spurting blood like a steam pot, it echoed of endless bleeding and suffering, the loss of vitality, it was the aspect of blood loss.


    Chronifer had found himself before the cosmic interpretations of a Law, one of Ruhira¡¯s branches: Scarlet.


    If Chronifer had knees he would have fallen, there was no word he knew that could describe his emotions, his awe at Ruhira talk about the power of the Caj''malarie, his respect at his parents and clan might, His clouded fear of the might as well. They all seemed so far away from him, the ability to have his name among the rank of those he feared and respected, but here as if painted on the universe laid his path to that level. Maybe even above.


    Ruhira had told him the name of this place. The Constellation of Laws she''d called it. A place where all of the multiverse Laws are broken down into smaller parts know as aspects, these laws are of everything, known and unknown and it is from this place that the races come to forge a leaf to harness the powers of their branches, their affinities and link to these multiversal laws.


    And Chronifer was here to do just that.


    He felt a bubbling joy fill him up like a bottle about to burst open.


    Before him he looked at a billion, trillion, no, countless amounts of aspects to the scarlet law, that stretched endlessly in all directions.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    He tried moving his hands¡­ nothing, and the rest of his body ended at the same result, only his eyes seemed to function. Yet he didn''t panic and it was definitely not because Shully had thankfully pointed the fact out to him.


    Okay, first think of the aspects you feel lay at the foundation of your idea. Chronifer recited Ruhira¡¯s quick lesson. Aspects he knew was a partial explanation to the law


    He thought of his idea and found a few aspects, first was solar energy, how do I¡­


    The Constellation seemed to spin like a globe before him or was it him who was lurched around? He had no idea, and didn''t care one bit, he just had a feeling he couldn¡¯t explain, it overcame him.


    From before him the meaning of the Constellation Flowed into his mind and like a peripheral noise the other meanings also sneaked into his ear but with focus he seemed to cut them off and focus on the Star, no. aspect. Before him.


    It declared endless energy from the heavens, energy from the light, from the celestial kings. His amusement mounted, he heard no voice, saw no writing, yet he just knew.


    Amidst his amazement his perspective shifted as if consumed by a vision, he saw a young boy, he kneeled in seeming exhaustion, around him laid a desolate, and ash covered Landscape offering no hope or solace of survival for only death lingered yet when the boy finally moved, he gazed not on the hopeless landscape but upon his blood covered hand and cast on it was the sun, its colour red, angry and majestic, the boy looked up, pressing his hands back against his gaping wound and smiled at the sun, like it has rekindled something deep within him he struggled to his feet once more and took one step forward and then another.


    Yes. this is it! He exclaimed his emotions heavy, the vision had held a raw emotion that did not dwindle his amazement but instead seemed to kindle his dreams and drive, the vision had given him hope and fire.


    Then from a distance as if a thought forgotten yet recognized has forgotten he felt his hand move and the wooden quill against his fingers.


    Before him a mini star appeared burning brightly but like the giant aspects before him gave off zero heat, or cold.


    Then he thought about another aspect. One he highly predicted most people had linked with Scarlet. Heat, unbearable heat.


    Once again the myriad constellations of aspects rolled and Chronifer found himself facing an aspect.


    The meaning came this time like many whispers, from all directions and non, it whispered of warmth, warmth so deep it reached the bones, Then came the vision, a hunting gore covered room dyed a deep scarlet hue, blood sprayed and poled everywhere, boiling and sizzling with a mix of flesh and chunks unrecognisable organs. The room boiled, the colour of its light changed due to the heat, it warped the air in a scarlet haze, it lurched away from Chronifers mind with his acceptance, before him slightly to his right side two aspects now lingered.


    He paused for a moment, the vision having shocked him a bit. Had they exploded due to the heat? He shook the question away.


    What next? He wondered. something focused, hmmm. He lingered for a fair amount of time, ah, yes.


    He thought of a beam steady, focused and destructive. The spin was minimal this time and before him, like a laser the meaning shot through him, in a flash, force, focused light, heat unmatched. Its meaning came.


    The vision came, vivid. In the sky flew a man of regal bearing. He was watched by a sole soldier who stood amongst a field of corpses, and he seemed not far from death as well. Behind the battlefield was a village of women and children. Not once did the soldier look at the corpse of his fallen comrades, not once did he look away from the enemy, not once did his sword shake. The lips of the floating man moved, still the soldier stood, a silent bulwark. Then without preamble a beam thicker than his forearm and even that of Dante shoot towards the man, Like a wrath of great vengeance and wrath the soldier parried and the skies seem to tear and rip. The vision shattered like a sword shattering.


    Chronifer gasped, what in hell. The amount of resolve held by the man spoke to Chronifer, not for protecting people but what meant the most to him.


    He didn''t know for how long he stayed there overwhelmed by the scope of death he had seen but the third aspect before him soon called for his attention.


    Oh. He thought, recovering from the scope of the Battle and then wondered if he needed any more aspects but he didn''t. What now? He remembered Ruhiras lesson.


    ¡°Imagine your idea.¡± She had said.


    Chronifer did just that.


    He thought of a woman walking underneath the sun, her body absorbing the sun light and heat, then she pointed her finger and a beam of condensed light and heat blasted forth. Then she absorbed the sun''s energy once more and manipulated the electrical energy absorbed, creating heat waves and dimming the light of the sun, absorbing the heat from her surroundings.


    The thought was not vivid, but like it was a catalyst the aspects before him shimmered brighter and brighter and then Chronifer eyes opened and before him he saw golden light vanished and then two familiar percentage counters appeared in the middle of the Ledger.


    Uniqueness (90.05%)


    Potential (92.94%)


    Chronifer exhaled and then he saw a system message appear before him, which he hadn''t seen the past few times since he wasn¡¯t in contact with the Ledger.


    Leaf Blueprint Acquired


    Leaf Name:


    Solar leech


    Leaf Description:


    You are the mistress of the celestial king, the sun. You command its energies and make it bend to your whims. You are the heat of the sun and the world beneath your feet.


    Whisper your words O¡¯cunning witch.


    Do you wish to acquire this Leaf?


    Yes/No


    Acquire to see effects


    Chronifer read through the Leaf description and looked back at both girls, at his first try, Chronifer felt a quiver of excitement echo through him. The unknown emotion grew with his excitement.


    He saw Ruhira¡¯s face in shock and Shully wide eyed with a smirk, and then he smiled, the girls exploded with screams of disbelief and Chronifer smiled his heart set free of the future before him and he shouted a resounding and joy filled: ¡°Yeah!¡±


    When was the last time Chronifer had felt this way? He was happy, not just that he felt pure unadulterated joy, and deep within he finally felt the strange emotion. It was: wonder, a bountiful feeling of discovery and progress.


    The reason for the emotion was as vivid as his smile as Ruhira and Shully ruffled his hair and showered him with praise, he had seen his father, mother, and Oniihino do multiple things beyond common sense things the multiverse promised, now he had touched upon that power that boggles the mind


    In that moment Chronifer found another thing that spoke to him just as much as power and fame, it was simple yet it set into his mind like a pillar, it was adventure, Chronifer wanted to get out of walls and see the world beyond and worlds that the multiverse held and other mythical things he might not even know yet.


    He looked at both girls not even knowing when he had been pulled to his feet and pumped his fist, ¡°let''s do this!¡±