The smell of frozen blood lingers longer than normal blood.
I didn't know that before today.
Now I do.
I stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, my sword still warm in my grip even though the aura had already faded. Around me lay broken bodies—Shriven torn apart by clean cuts, Acolytes skewered in jagged ice formations that glistened like twisted sculptures.
Some were cleaved so precisely they looked as if they had simply been divided by a careful sculptor.
Others… not so clean.
I exhaled slowly.
My sword aura flickered once along the blade—thin, pale, unstable—and then disappeared like it had never existed.
So it wasn't a hallucination.
Good to know I wasn't going insane.
I slid the sword back into its sheath. The click sounded louder than it should have.
Across from me, Ione stood in the middle of what looked like a battlefield designed by winter itself. The ground beneath her feet was frozen solid in a wide radius. Ice spikes rose from the earth like a forest of translucent spears. Each one held a corpse.
Her uniform was spotless.
Not a drop of blood.
Not even a wrinkle.
I swallowed.
For a brief second—just a brief second—I felt a little pity for the Archons.
Then I remembered what they were.
And the pity evaporated.
A gust of wind swept across the ruined amusement park.
The smoke parted.
And Edward appeared beside us like he had just stepped out of a casual afternoon stroll.
"Oh," he said lightly, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve, "it seems I was a little late."
I stared at him.
A little late?
The entire western side of the park looked like a small-scale apocalypse.
"Did you finish your mission?" he asked, smiling pleasantly.
I looked at him the way someone looks at a person who just asked if they enjoyed being stabbed.
"Yes," I said flatly. "We had a lovely time. Great bonding activity. Ten out of ten."
Ione didn't speak. She just looked at Edward with narrowed eyes.
Edward clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the destruction.
"You have both passed your first lesson," he said. "Outstanding performance."
I raised an eyebrow. "Lesson?"
"Yes."
"You call this a lesson?"
He tilted his head. "Real enemies do not wait for you to warm up."
Fair.
Still annoying.
I crossed my arms. "You could've at least warned us."
"If I warned you," he said calmly, "you would have prepared differently. I wanted to see your instinct."
That shut me up.
Because he was right.
If I had known beforehand, I would've approached it tactically, cautiously.
But that first reaction—that first cut—
That was raw.
That was real.
Edward's gaze shifted to my sword.
"You awakened," he said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
I held his gaze. "Apparently."
Ione glanced at me again. This time, not just neutral observation.
Recognition.
Edward nodded once. "Sword Expert."
The words felt heavier coming from him.
The world had answered my will.
And now someone who understood that world had acknowledged it.
I didn't smile.
But something inside me did.
*****
As the emergency response units arrived—academy knights, barrier mages, healers—Edward dismissed us with a simple instruction to return tomorrow for formal training.
We left the site quietly.
*****
On the way back, the carriage was silent.
Ione stared out the window again.
I leaned back, thinking.
This world.
The world of The Ascension of the Third-Born.
From the outside, it looked like a fantasy romance.
Academy arcs.
Political intrigue.
Prince and heroine.
Elegant balls and forbidden glances.
But that was just the front cover.
The reality?
This world was built on tension.
On power.
On entities that did not care whether love blossomed in a garden somewhere.
And at the center of that hidden darkness were the Seven Churches.
People hear the word "church" and imagine prayers. Blessings. Candles and hymns.
That's adorable.
These churches were not sanctuaries.
They were organizations of calculated destruction.
Seven rival sects.
All worshipping the same unknown "divine" entity.
But each interpreting its will differently.
And each willing to sacrifice anything for power.
Villages.
Cities.
Bloodlines.
Humanity.
And the worshippers are called 'Archons'.
At the bottom of that structure were the 'Shriven'.
The lowest.
The disposable.
Most Shriven were broken long before they joined. Failed mages. War orphans. Criminals. People who had lost everything and were offered "purpose."
The cult stripped them of identity first.
Names replaced with numbers.
Families erased.
Often their tongues removed so they could never betray secrets.
Their robes were ragged, stained.
Brands burned into their skin—ownership marks.
They were puppets.
And they knew it.
They acted as scouts, meat shields, ritual fuel.
They didn't understand the cult's true goals.
They didn't need to.
Hatred was enough.
Above them were the 'Acolytes of Ash'.
If the Shriven were fists, the Acolytes were hands.
They prepared sacrifices.
Drew ritual circles.
Collected rare components—some of which I would rather never describe again.
They knew more.
Enough to perform low-tier dark magic—decay curses, fear spells, minor corruption.
They wore clean black vestments, iron medallions around their necks engraved with the cult's sigil.
Some claimed the medallion grew warm when their god watched.
Personally?
I hoped it burned.
Then came the 'Liturgists'.
Smooth-tongued devils.
Preachers of despair.
They traveled villages whispering doubts.
"Why does the kingdom ignore you?"
"Why do nobles feast while you starve?"
They didn't spread darkness.
They cultivated it.
In combat, they wielded mid-tier shadow magic—bone spikes, corrupted summons, stronger curses.
They looked human.
Normal.
That was what made them dangerous.
They wore ornate priestly robes—black or deep crimson—and carried "Black Books" bound in leather no one asked about.
Then—
The 'Bishops'.
Real power.
Bishops commanded entire cult cells.
They planned kidnappings.
Orchestrated city-wide sacrifices.
Manipulated politics.
Each Bishop received a 'Gift.'
But Gifts had costs.
An arm turning demonic.
Blood becoming corrosive.
Faces decaying beyond recognition.
They wore ceremonial armor or silk dyed in dried blood.
Masks to hide what they had become.
Power-wise?
Comparable to high Sword Experts or advanced Magi.
Fighting one alone was suicide.
Above them—
'Arch-Bishops'.
Regional commanders.
Catastrophic threats.
Their Gifts were not mutations.
They were fusions.
Partial merging with the dark entity.
They could reshape battlefields.
Summon high-tier demons.
Corrupt entire landscapes.
Power comparable to peak Sword Masters or Archmages.
Knight orders were dispatched just to hunt one.
Success not guaranteed.
Then came 'the Cardinals'.
The inner circle.
Few in number.
They didn't just receive Gifts.
They embodied fragments of their god's will.
They manipulated kingdoms.
Controlled long-term strategy.
In battle?
They were calamities.
Only Grandmaster-tier swordsmen could fight them directly.
Even ten Sword Masters would struggle.
And at the very top—
'The Hierophant'.
The Apostate King.
The vessel.
The Avatar.
The absolute authority.
Even Cardinals knelt.
The Hierophant didn't wield dark power.
They were its mouthpiece.
Their presence alone empowered lesser heretics.
Their true goal?
Unknown.
Their power?
Comparable to Sword Sovereigns.
Maybe beyond.
Looking at them too long could cause madness.
Or religious ecstasy.
Honestly, same thing.
*****
If the cult represented one axis of power—
Magic represented another.
The Mage ranking system was brutally structured.
The Vessel — 'Novice'.
A soul just beginning to hold mana.
Enhancement only.
Faster steps.
Sharper vision.
No spellcasting yet.
The Leak — 'Apprentice'.
Mana spills uncontrollably.
Sparks.
Heat bursts.
Dangerous even to the user.
The Conduit — 'Journeyman'.
Mana channeled properly.
Shaped into bolts, blades, shields.
Reliable battlefield asset.
The Reservoir — 'Magus'.
Deep internal well.
Sustained large-scale spells.
One-man army tier.
The Anchor — 'Archmage'.
Soul so heavy it pins reality.
Within 100 meters, no magic functions unless permitted.
Domain authority.
God within a radius.
'The Eclipse'.
Consciousness projected outward.
Become the storm rather than cast it.
Partial authority over a major element.
'The Monolith'.
Permanent distortion.
Immortal biology.
Mastery over 'Time', 'Space', or 'Spirit'.
Reality-bending existence.
'The Horizon'.
Boundary between real and unreal.
The can Pull things from Void.
Create new laws.
Comparable to Sword Sovereign.
'The Origin'.
The source.
If they died, magic might die with them.
Mastery over 'Life', 'Death', 'Chaos'.
Comparable to Sword Saint.
They are Mythical being.
Probably not real.
Hopefully not real.
*****
The carriage slowed.
I glanced at Ione.
"…You were holding back," I said.
"Yes," she replied calmly.
I sighed.
"Of course you were."
She looked at me briefly.
"You were not."
That… surprised me.
"I didn't have room to," I said.
She nodded once.
And for some reason, that nod felt like acknowledgment.
When we reached the academy gates, Edward was already there again.
Because of course he was.
He looked at both of us.
"You have seen only the lowest ranks today. Shriven. Acolytes."
His eyes sharpened slightly.
"If a Bishop had appeared, you would have died."
Blunt.
Accurate.
"And if an Arch-Bishop had appeared," he added calmly, "I would have intervened."
Comforting.
Somewhat.
"You both have potential," he said. "But potential means nothing without structure."
He looked at me directly.
"You touched the Order of the Sword."
My fingers tightened unconsciously.
"Yes."
"Good," he said. "Now learn to command it."
Then he turned away.
"Tomorrow," he said over his shoulder, "we begin properly."
I stood there for a moment after he left.
The world wasn't peaceful.
It never had been.
And if I wanted to survive it—
If I wanted to stand against Cardinals.
Against Monoliths.
Against whatever sat at the top of this madness—
Then today wasn't a victory.
It was a warning.
I exhaled slowly.
"Guess the romance arc is officially over," I muttered.
Beside me, Ione spoke softly.
"It never existed."
I glanced at her.
"…You're terrifying."
She walked past me toward the academy.
And I followed.
Because in this world—
If you stop moving,
You get erased.