The Grid's void still shimmered around him, its new branches burning bright with untapped power. Noctis stepped deeper into it, and the chains shifted, presenting him with every skill, every doctrine, every node he had ever claimed. Each pulsed faintly, waiting for essence to be spent.
He had no hesitation.
His reserves brimmed with the wealth of the sanctum, the angels, and the labyrinth core. Now was the time to shape them.
[Upgrade: All Core Skills → Tier IV]
Pain seared through him as hundreds of channels lit at once. His body arched, wings spreading wide in the void, crimson arcs snapping off their edges. Every blade technique, every blood art, every shadow form refined itself into something sharper, cleaner, more merciless.
Exsanguinate IV — wounds now tear not only flesh, but drain vitality and essence simultaneously.
Soul Spire IV — a pillar of crimson-gold light anchoring his soul deeper into reality, making his existence harder to sever.
Eucharist Blade IV — twin blades able to cut through sanctity itself, their edges glowing with threads of inverted scripture.
Orbiting Arsenal IV — his Reapers expanded, faster, sharper, their blind-spot strikes now capable of bending into dimensions where shields could not reach.
Ghost Vein IV — phasing not just through stone or wards, but through the edge of reality itself, slipping outside the frame of sight and sound.
Blood Flood IV — his aura became a sea, flooding entire districts in crimson tendrils when released.
Every doctrine swelled. Sword, Spear, Archer, Predator—each sprouted radiant variants, combining shadow and sanctity. Radiant Predation's branch pulsed with new nodes, its skills sharper:
Litany Rend IV — now capable of unraveling not only hymns but entire rituals or mass prayers at once.
Dawnsunder Fang IV — could pierce even celestial hearts, draining their cores in seconds.
Crucible Maw IV — no longer temporary; he could now consume sustained divine attacks endlessly while channeling.
Seraph's Shackle IV — chains strong enough to hold even angels with six wings, dragging them into submission.
[Upgrade: Minor Nodes Unlocked]
Bloodforged Carapace IV — his flesh hardened beyond steel, scars turning into scales of living crimson armor.
Sanctum Stride IV — he could walk freely across consecrated grounds, even within divine domains, without resistance.
Eternal Vessel IV — his endurance swelled until fatigue was but a memory; his Grid recovery doubled again.
Litany of Hunger IV — within his domain, every life extinguished returned torrents of essence to him, ensuring he would never run dry.
The chains of the Grid fell slack, humming in satisfaction. His wings glowed brighter, tattoos crawling across his body with crimson-gold radiance.
Noctis opened his eyes.
He stood again in the throne hall. But now, the silence was unbearable—an ocean pressing down on every stone, every wall, every heart within the city.
He exhaled once, and the world bent.
[Skill: Sovereign Pulse — Activated]
His will erupted outward in a tidal wave of crimson-gold resonance. The entire city convulsed as the pulse passed. Every street, every home, every temple. Men, women, children—nobles in their estates, peasants in their beds, soldiers in their posts—all froze, eyes wide, breath stolen. Then, as one, they fell to their knees.
From the castle walls to the farthest markets, the city collapsed into worship. Cries rose, voices overlapping in fervor, moans of devotion and praise that shook the morning air.
"Master.""Sovereign.""Lord."
The queen bowed deepest in the chamber, Tina, Iris, Clara beside her. Veyra pressed her forehead to the stone, her breath trembling. Maids and guards who had already bent to him fell again, now drowning in the weight of his Tier IV command.
The city was no longer a capital. It was a cathedral of flesh and blood, its faith severed from heaven and bound to him.
Noctis stood silent at the center, wings spread, tattoos burning brighter than the stained glass above. His silence was no longer just presence. It was dominion.
And every soul within the city knew they were his.
The throne hall was silent save for the faint hum of power that clung to the walls like a storm that would never pass. Noctis sat at the center, wings folded behind him, tattoos along his chest faintly glowing with crimson-gold light. His silence weighed over the chamber, yet his expression was calm—satisfied.
For the first time since he had been sealed, betrayed, and dragged into dungeons, he felt the fullness of what he had taken. A city bent beneath him. A kingdom's faith inverted. His Grid blazing with the might of Tier IV.
He leaned back into the throne, lips curling. Then he laughed—low at first, then sharp, echoing into the rafters. The sound made the guards at the doors stiffen, the maids near the walls lower their eyes, and the queen's breath catch.
But then, amidst the satisfaction, memory stirred. A name.
The bishop.
Noctis's smile thinned, eyes narrowing. Where was he now?
"Veyra," he said. His voice cut through the hall.
The Archdeacon entered swiftly, head bowed. Her robes, though loose, could not hide the faint marks of his blessing that glowed along her skin. She approached the throne, kneeling.
"Come closer," he commanded.
She rose and obeyed, moving into his reach. Noctis took her, drawing her in, pressing his lips to her neck. She shivered, eyes closing, breath quickening beneath his touch. Then his words slid against her ear, cold and commanding.
"You will send a message to the bishop. Tell him to come to Redhaven."
Her eyes flicked open at the name. Redhaven—once a city of trade and life, now nothing but ruin. The rumors of its destruction had spread, whispers of a great evil. Noctis's gaze burned, and she understood. He was baiting the bishop.
"You will tell him the evil I sought is tied to the ruins. That it is urgent. That he must go." His claws traced her jaw as he spoke. "Do this, and I will award you."
Veyra trembled, then smiled faintly, a mixture of devotion and hunger. "Yes, Master."
She bowed, turned, and left the hall without hesitation, her steps echoing down the corridors as she made her way back to the cathedral to send the message.
When she was gone, Noctis rose from the throne. His wings flexed wide, filling the air with a ripple of silence.
Redhaven. A graveyard of a city. Perfect for a snare.
He turned his head toward the women waiting at the sides of the hall—the queen, Tina, Iris, Clara, and the maids who had been called earlier. His lips parted, fangs flashing faintly as his tongue slid across them.
"Come," he said.
They obeyed as one, stepping forward, their eyes locked to him with reverence and hunger. The old king had long since been moved to another chamber, forgotten. The throne room and its bedchamber beyond were his now.
The women drew near. Noctis's silence pressed deeper, his smile widening.
Outside the castle, a rider spurred his horse into the gray morning. The sealed letter carried Veyra's mark, but it was his will behind the words. The message sped toward the bishop, toward Redhaven, toward the trap that awaited.
The city slept, unaware. The capital was bound. And soon, another piece of the old faith would be drawn into his jaws.
The castle stirred in quiet reverence. Servants moved as if in ritual, their every action slowed by the weight of his silence. Guards held their posts without thought, eyes glazed with obedience. Within the queen's chamber, Noctis prepared.
He stood at the window, wings half-spread, their crimson-black membranes traced with veins of gold. The tattoos along his arms burned faintly in the pale light, pulsing with his Tier IV Grid. Behind him, the queen, Tina, Iris, Clara, and the maids waited, their eyes lowered, each dressed in silks that whispered of devotion. Even now, their presence was less court and more congregation.
Noctis's gaze never left the horizon. Redhaven lay beyond it, a wound on the land, a place of ash and ruin. Perfect for a snare.
He turned back to the women. "Prepare yourselves. When I move, you will remain here and ensure the city bends further. My will must not weaken while I am gone."
They bowed as one. "Yes, Master."
Veyra had not returned yet, still carrying out her command at the cathedral, sending the message in the guise of urgency. Noctis trusted she would obey—his mark inside her veins left no doubt.
He walked across the chamber, passing each woman in turn. A hand brushed Tina's cheek, another lingered on Clara's shoulder, Iris shivered as his silence pressed deeper, the queen lowered her eyes, breath quickening, and even the maids trembled when his gaze fell upon them. All of them were his. His presence was altar, his word was vow.
Satisfied, he returned to the throne, seated himself, and let his Grid flare. Chains of crimson-gold stretched across his vision. The doctrines of Radiant Predation and Dominion burned brightest, pulsing with new potential. He studied them in silence, memorizing every node and skill, weaving his strategy.
Soon, the bishop would come. And Redhaven would become a tomb.
Far from the capital, a horse's hooves thundered against the road. The messenger clutched the sealed letter close, bearing Veyra's mark in wax. His eyes were glassy, his will broken by silence, but his duty clear: deliver the message.
Days later, the bishop received it.
The letter bore the urgency of the Archdeacon's hand. The words claimed the evil Noctis had once spoken of was rooted in Redhaven, that it stirred within the ruins, and that only the bishop's presence could unearth the truth.
The bishop read in silence, his eyes narrowing. Around him, attendants murmured prayers, but the man's face betrayed more calculation than faith. He folded the letter slowly, fingers lingering on the seal.
"Redhaven…" he whispered.
His gaze turned east, toward the ruined city. Toward the snare.
The cathedral in exile rang with hushed bells at dawn. Priests and acolytes stirred like ants from a nest, packing relics, polishing armor, and reciting prayers as the bishop made his decision.
He stood at the center of the nave, letter still in hand. His expression was hard, unreadable, but those who knew him well saw the weight of it—the Archdeacon's seal, the call to Redhaven, and the dread that had already spread through the faithful at the mere mention of that cursed place.
He raised his voice, carrying through the stone hall."Redhaven festers. If evil stirs there, then the Church will not remain blind."
Acolytes whispered fervent prayers. Knights in steel stepped forward, helms under arms, faces grim.
The bishop's retinue began to form.
First came the Templar Guard—twelve armored knights bearing shields etched with burning scripture, their swords sanctified in old rites. They knelt as one before him, waiting for command.
Then came the Chorus of Light—six white-robed priests and priestesses, each carrying censers that leaked golden smoke, their voices trained to chant litanies that strengthened allies and seared shadows.
Finally, a smaller cadre of Acolyte Scribes, carrying relics and holy tomes, prepared to record whatever revelation might come of the journey. Their pens scratched nervously, as though they already expected tragedy.
The bishop himself donned no simple robes. Over his cassock he pulled a breastplate of gilded steel, relics dangling from his neck, charms lining his belt. His staff of silver-white wood hummed faintly with restrained light, topped by a cross-shaped crystal.
"Redhaven," he repeated, eyes narrowing. "A wound upon the land. If the Archdeacon speaks true, then it is my duty to confront what festers there. We march within the hour."
The cathedral erupted into motion. Bells tolled again, louder. Horses were prepared, banners raised, provisions strapped down.
By sunrise, the column was ready.
The bishop led from the front astride a pale warhorse. His retinue followed in disciplined lines, armor clattering, censers swinging, prayers rising. Dust billowed behind them as they left the cathedral grounds, heading east.
Travelers on the roads stopped and stared as the holy procession passed—knights gleaming, priests chanting, the bishop's crystal staff casting faint beams of light with every step. To some, it was a sign of hope. To others, a premonition of doom.
The bishop kept his silence, his eyes locked on the horizon. The ruins of Redhaven waited.
And though he would not admit it aloud, a seed of doubt gnawed at him.
The Archdeacon's letter had been too urgent, too sudden. He had felt no stirrings from Redhaven before now. But duty demanded faith, and faith demanded obedience.
"Whatever waits," he murmured under his breath, "the Light will burn it away."
The retinue pressed on, banners snapping in the wind.
Noctis watched Redhaven from a black spur of rock while the ruined city lay beneath him like a carcass being dressed for a feast. Streets gaped open, roofs caved like mouths, and the tower of the old cathedral leaned drunkenly toward the sky. Ash drifted across cobbles still warm from whatever had ended life here. It was perfect: broken geometry, predictable choke points, a city that could be remade into a pattern of death and harvest.
He did not hurry. He let the ruin speak its own plans to him.
Wings folded, he descended into the plaza at the center and began to move with the economy of a predator who had spent centuries learning how to place bones. Hands—once human, now tools of his Grid—laid marks into cracked stone. He whispered old invocations and newer profanities to the blood in his veins, and the runes glowed where his claws traced them. The city answered, a skeleton rearranging itself to his design.
[Skill: Crown of Chains — Inscribed][Skill: Litany Rend — Inscribed][Doctrine: Dominion — Node Deployment]
He carved wards that were not wards in any cleric's book. Where the Church had bound sanctity into runes, he inverted thread and stitch: sanctified seams that would pull and hold, hymn-anchors that would choke the very prayers meant to free a soul. He set them in concentric bands around the plaza—one ring for sensing, one for closing, one for swallowing. The marks looked like scripture at a glance; looked closer and the letters bled into teeth.
Blood servants came next. He raised them as he had raised things before—not whole minds, not bright wills, but obedient vessels. From scattered corpses, from half-formed golems and the bones of knights, he grafted thralls: pale figures bound by thin chains of his light, eyes glazed, mouths slack with the last echo of a prayer. He set them at the approaches, in lanes and alleys and doorways, their orders simple—make noise, force pursuit, die and feed.
[Skill: Seraph's Shackle — Deployed (proxy nodes)][Skill: Blood Flood — Staging]
The servants were his bait and his ammunition. They would not think; they would bleed. When a retinue of sanctified men met them, the thralls would collapse in gouts of blood and sanctified residue, and his Blood Flood would drink the runoff like a tide. Each corpse that dissolved would refuel the circles he had placed, and each refueling made the next trap sharper.
He planted devices in the ground—little pillars of carved hymn-stone, inverted. When the bishop's men trod upon them the pillars would convulse and spit gold-light like a lash; the effect was a short, brutal unraveling of blessed formations that left corpses easy to strip of essence. Where knights grouped to hold a line, the pillars would erupt and fracture sanctified mail into brittle flakes. Where priests chanted, the pits would swallow the words and feed them into the network.
[Node: Litany of Hunger — Tuned][Node: Bloodforged Carapace — Linked to Traps]
He threaded the plaza with hidden hooks: pivoting slabs that would fold under weight, collapsing pathways into pits of molten hymn-fire; scaffolds that would fall and divide a column; narrow alleys that funneled men into kill-rings with no room to turn. Each mechanical hazard had a rune at its heart, a small engine of his Grid waiting for a signal.
He left watchers—silent, patient. Two dozen of his better thralls were not puppets but cunning simpletons: trained to feign rout, to retreat to a choke, to draw a clean line of pursuit. He positioned them like puppets on a string, their falls calculated to the breath. He set the outer bands to close only when the inner ring had been bled; the traps were choreography, and the city would dance exactly as he wrote.
[Doctrine: Tempo Ledger — Pace Lock (area sync)][Skill: Crown of Chains — Node Sync]
There was one variable he enjoyed most: the bishop himself. He had expected the man would be proud—resolute, practiced in resisting soft magics. The binding stare, the slow coil of domination that felled most minds, would not take this bishop easily. Noctis had already considered that.
He smiled then—a small, sharp thing. Thinking of the bishop made the smile widen.
"He will not yield to the stare," he told the empty air, as if answering his own delight. "Good. He will be interesting."
He toyed with the alternatives in his head as he walked the perimeter: Seraph's Shackle could sap divine verve and leave an exalted man like a drained instrument. Litany Rend could unspool the bishop's protective prayers mid-chant. Dawnsunder Fangs could pierce the plated sanctity at the heart of a man and let corruption flow inward. Crucible Maw could swallow the very holy light thrown at him and return it as hunger. Or—most delicious of all—he could simply let the bishop fight through his servants until the man was alone, tired, and then Noctis could take what he wanted.
He left a final, private thing for the bishop: a line of small, perfectly carved stones leading from the ruined northern gate to the center plaza. To anyone with faith enough, they would read like a signpost calling the righteous to the heart. To anyone with less intent, they were nothing. To the bishop they would feel like duty translated to footsteps. It was the perfect ledger: invitation, bait, and rope.
[Relic Field: Apostate Crown — Passive][Skill: Sovereign Pulse — Standby]
When the preparations were finished, he flew up to the highest broken tower and looked down. The web was laid. The wards throbbed faintly; the thralls breathed in time with the slow heartbeat he had grafted to the city. The traps were cruelly elegant—half sanctity, half blood, all of them his.
Hands behind his head, he let the wind lift his hair. He imagined the bishop riding in, silver staff catching the pale sun, knights bright and heavy, priests murmuring litanies. He imagined the procession tasting victory on their tongues and stepping into the choreography he had written.
Because the bishop could not be caught by a single command, Noctis planned to use the elements the man trusted: the liturgy, the rituals, the rituals' expected pattern. He would unmake the scripts as they were being read. He would snatch at the man when his guard thinned—by design, by fatigue, by faith made brittle through attrition.
And the thought of sinking his fangs into the bishop—of tasting incense and sanctity together—made the predator in him purr.
He did not dwell on the end yet. There was pleasure in waiting. There was pleasure in the choreographed cruelty: each knight that fell because of a pivoted slab, each priest whose words unspooled into nothing, each thrall that feed his flood and then the next. He would fly down and snatch men from the field, one by one, make them kneel, press chains of sovereignty into their chests, and fold them inward. The city would convert itself for him with a thousand small betrayals and a single great one.
He set his tempo ledger to monitor the zones, calibrated the Crown of Chains to receive a single trigger. He drew a thin line through the air with a fingertip in the dust—an invocation, an order. The web hummed and accepted.
Below him, in the ruined alleyways and half-roofed homes, his blood servants began to take their positions like soldiers answering some unseen drum. In the tavern that had once been the city's heart, a one-eyed thrall banged a pot twice. That was the signal.
Noctis crouched in the shadow of his tower, wings folded, eyes half-closed. He waited to feel the first heartbeat: the bishop's column in the distance, the men's tramp crowds, the righteous ciphers in their ranks.
When the sound finally came—horse hooves on stone—it made the grin on his face widen. The trap was set. The prey came running toward the shape he had drawn.