Zachary reached the ruined Cathedral in the late afternoon. The sky was beginning to bleed as the sun dipped west, and a warm, salty breeze blew from the south, making his hair dance across his scarred face.
Thanks to the efficiency of his two interns, he had reached the safety of his lair without complication. He unsummoned the Echoes as he scaled the familiar stone walls and climbed into the Priestess's room with a grunt of effort. Finally, he collapsed onto the edge of his bed, laying the packages at his feet.
He stared at the pouch he'd recovered from the Sleeper's skeleton for a moment before shaking his head. That could wait. Instead, he reached for the Artisan bundle and Harper's letter.
He inspected the crumpled parchment. The ink was fresh, and the careless, frantic scrawl betrayed the raw emotion behind it. With a soft, amused scoff, he smoothed it out and began to read.
'Hello Zach, how are you?' The words were messily crossed out, but he could still make them out.
'I don't know why I wrote that. You shouldn't be "good" given the state I saw you in just moments ago. My heart almost stopped, and it took all my strength not to scream when I saw your face... I think that's why I'm writing. There isn't much to report on the mission, yet I find myself wanting to talk to you.'
There was a heavy blot of ink on the page—vague proof of the boy's hesitation.
'I feel guilty, Zach. Thanks to your generosity, I'm back in the safety of the Castle while you're suffering gods-know-what in the darkness of the ruins. And yet, I don't know why it warms my heart to be here again. No, I'm lying. I do know.
It's because I'm here with a purpose. Before, I was just an invisible thing, crawling through corners and praying the Guards wouldn't demand a tribute I couldn't pay. But now I have a mission. The feeling of being depended on—and by someone as striking as you—it scares me as much as it excites me. I can't do much in the ruins, but I can help you by being here.
To be honest, I'm struggling. People are complicated and stay away from new faces. How do you make it look so easy? I've managed a faint friendship with the Artisans. They act like they don't care, but you left a lasting impression on them. I even hear the Tenants repeating your jokes sometimes, haha.
Sometimes I doubt the purpose of the job. How will talking help us escape this shithole? But I don't doubt you, Zach. That night in the ruined hut was enough to know you don't speak empty words. Whatever you're doing in the ruins is for the greater good. Keep focused on that. I'll be here...
It shames me to think this, but I pray you won't blame me. I've always been the older brother, taking care of my sister and father. But now... I feel like I have an older brother to rely on. Thanks, Zachary. —H.'
Zachary read those last words with a deep frown. He crumpled the paper, clicking his tongue. "Who does he think he is, calling me 'older brother'?"
The mask of annoyance held for exactly two seconds before it shattered. An honest, booming laughter suddenly filled the Priestess's room. It resonated through the sacred walls and over the blood-stained corner where the remains of his Penitence still lay, chasing away the grim memories with the sound of a soul finally catching its breath.
'I'll need to pull my weight, then,' Zachary thought, reaching for the Artisans' gift. 'Can't let that kid take the whole load.'
He untied the rope and rummaged through the bundle. It was a treasure trove: cooking utensils, spices, a basic tool kit, hygiene products, and a leather pouch that smelled strongly of medicine—everything from ointments to analgesic plants. Beneath it all was a small, palm-sized flask with a note attached.
"There will be more if you come back. —K."
He didn't even need to open it to know it was high-grade alcohol. Zachary laughed again, though the wounds in his abdomen protested the movement. He coughed, turning the flask over in his hand.
"Oh my... they're really persuasive."
With a weary shake of his head, he unsummoned the Witness's Testament, leaving his scarred body bare in the dimming light of the Cathedral. With practiced ease, he grabbed the ointment. After taking a long, sharp huff of the pungent medicine to steady his nerves, he began the grueling process of applying it.
He worked it into the jagged ridges of his face, then over the massive furrow in his leg, and deep into the gruesome puncture above his ribs where he had performed his own amateur surgery. Finally, he used the remainder on his chest and saved the largest portion for his mangled left hand. He wrapped the hand in fresh bandages, pulling them so tight the white cloth immediately stained a sickly, bruised pink and green.
'Let's pray this is enough for it to return to how it used to be...' he thought, though his heart wasn't really in the prayer.
With the medical work done, he turned to the large pouch. With steady hands, he opened it, only to find a dozen or so rolls of parchment, carefully tied. 'So that's why it was so light. Only paper.'
Zachary unfurled one. It creaked with age but held firm. As he examined it, he found only intricate red patterns covering the entire surface. He turned it over, finding a single marking in the upper corner: "G10".
His frown deepened as he checked the others. They were all hauntingly similar—red or black patterns drawn across the length of the paper, with only a few showing empty spots. Each had a letter and a number etched on the back. He scratched the back of his head, left with more questions than answers, but those would have to wait until he was decent.
It was time to see his real prize.
With a pull of his Soul, the Mantle of the Underworld appeared. It hit the floor with a heavy, muffled thud, the stone of the Priestess's room creaking under its weight. Zachary studied the broken stone for a moment before placing his right palm over the shattered breastplate. He channeled his essence, focusing on Flow Control, and waited.
And waited.
And nothing happened. The essence flowed from the core in his heart, through his arteries, and reinforced his hand with mystical strength—but it stayed there. It refused to leak into the broken stone. Zachary's heart sank as the realization hit him.
Unlike a normal Awakened who could channel essence through a Soul Core, Zachary had paved an unorthodox path. Because his essence nested within his physical Body, Flow Control was a closed system. It was a cycle that lived and died within his skin, incapable of reaching the world outside.
'So... I just spent my Money for Nothing?' Resentment flared, but a spark of desperate logic followed it.
Pondering for a second, he decided on a gamble. He picked up his makeshift knife and opened a small slit in his right hand. He commanded Blood Weave to pool the ichor in his palm, then pressed the bleeding wound against the broken Memory.
The change was instantaneous—and agonizing.
By opening the wound, he had breached the "closed system" of Flow Control. The living stone of the Mantle drank his blood like a desert drinking after a century of drought. He hissed through his teeth as he felt his very essence being siphoned out, but he forced himself to stay connected.
The Memory transformed beneath his touch. Its glossy black surface shifted, the texture changing from porous stone to something colder, lighter, and far more resilient. It felt closer to metal now—something forged in a deeper hell.
'My blood carries the Blasphemer's aura,' he realized, a sudden, lightheaded clarity washing over him. '...And now it's also the vehicle for my Soul.'
He wondered if it was Blood Weave giving his ichor such tenacity, or if his Aspect Ability was forming a bridge between his flesh and his Soul. But he shook the thoughts away. Causes didn't matter; results did.
But as the armor mended, a new dread took hold. He realized instinctively that the essence he was losing wouldn't just refill like an Awakened's pool. This essence was biological—it was the result of every scrap of monster meat he had digested since arriving on the Shore. It was his stored vitality.
Thanks to being more experienced with Flow Control and the Core on his heart, he estimated he had absorbed roughly five hundred fragments through his diet. Three hundred were already gone, swallowed by the healing stone.
'This means...' he winced as the armor performed its final shifts, 'that as long as I'm willing to weaken myself, I can force enchantments to work through my blood.'
It was a game-changer, and a dangerous one. Finally, the Mantle of the Underworld stood fully restored, jet-black and terrifying. But as the link severed, a profound weakness clung to him. Between the blood loss and the sudden drain of his soul's essence, Zachary felt like a guttering candle in a gale.
Taking a few seconds to regain his composure, Zachary returned the Memory to his Soul Sea, only to summon it again—this time fully manifested as armor.
The black stone appeared in a shower of dark sparks, clinging to his body like a heavy second skin. The cold surface was carved with delicate, flowing patterns that spoke of divine craftsmanship. Finally, the Mantle of the Underworld appeared in all its glory: heavy, dark, and profoundly elegant.
Zachary moved his limbs as he stood up from the bed. Despite the significant weight, it wasn't enough to diminish his speed; the sleek, organic design refused to compromise his mobility. This was exactly what he had been looking for.
Walking to the bronze mirror, Zachary pulled one more thing from his Soul Sea. As he did, a wide smile spread across his lips.
The Witness's Testament appeared over him. The dark blue cloth enveloped him almost sacredly, descending from his shoulders in a regal fashion. The fine embroidery contrasted beautifully with the black stone beneath it. The decorated belt tied the mantle at his waist, leaving his chest and legs partially uncovered in a striking, martial silhouette.
The sleeves were no longer tied at the wrists, leaving them open to wave with his movements—just as Dahrio had once worn them. His smile turned heavy as the memory of the Last Witness's solemn expression crossed his mind.
With a nod, Zachary sat in the wooden chair beside the bed. The furniture groaned under the added mass, prompting him to unsummon the Mantle of the Underworld. As the stone vanished, the Witness's Testament returned to its former shape, covering him completely.
He closed his eye and began to think, allowing the chaos of the day to settle into the calm of his Mind. Finally, he opened his eye, a resolute glow shining in his crimson iris.
'...I think I have found a way to declare my next Noble Truth.'
He didn't allow the weight of the thought to cloud the realization. Instead, he began to polish it, giving it the density of fact.
An Awakened human with a single Core could be considered a Beast. Thanks to his [Conqueror's Soul] Attribute, his Soul was twice as potent—a boon that was becoming more apparent now that he was learning to use his essence. That made him, roughly, a Monster. But his Body was also able to store Soul Fragments, making it a third recipient of essence. In theory, Zachary was barely functioning as a Demon.
...Roughly.
'But having three Cores isn't enough. It's the ability to form more that defines a Divine Aspect,' Zachary said to himself, his voice heavy.
The ability to generate more Cores was almost a biological trait unique to Divine Aspects, the uniqueness of a Divine Soul to continue expanding and becoming vaster. The Spell had denied him that path when his rank was corrected. But he had finally found a workaround.
"A way that relies on my Aspect Ability," he told the empty room.
After his First Nightmare, Balance Control had become an absolute truth of his existence. It forced a constant equilibrium between Body, Mind, and Soul. Just as Flow Control relied on this uniqueness to pull forth his Dormant Soul, Zachary would rely on this balance to ground his Noble Truth. He wasn't aiming for a biological advancement; he was aiming for an enlightened one.
'I'll anchor the newly formed Cores in my Body, Mind, and Soul,' he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs.
A triad was the most basic form of balance. Each nexus held the other two, repelling and pulling in a constant, stable exchange. It was fortunate he could store essence in his Body; otherwise, the math wouldn't hold.
'Anchoring to Body and Soul is easy,' he noted. 'The Soul is already tied to the Core, and I've already formed a physical Core in my heart. The difficulty is the Mind.'
He closed his eye, trailing back to the traces of his battle against the Stone Saints.
'The control over my Mind allows for complicated computations, but more importantly... mastery of techniques. I'll just have to anchor a Core to a different technique.' He frowned; this part felt more fragile than the rest. But he shook the doubt away.
He only needed to provide a plausible form; his [Enlightenment] Attribute would do the rest to make it possible.
'By anchoring each Core to a different aspect of my existence, I'll tie them to a state of permanent balance.' Zachary thought as he added. 'If I ever want this to work, both my Soul Core and Body must be fully saturated.'
Each core would need a foundation. The first was obvious: the Simple Sword. Zachary was already improving each of the five styles, and he was planning on refining them further with Saint's help. The second was the Witness Battle Arts, while he had been using them sparingly, most of Dahrio's moves were already being engraved into his very marrow.
And that's without saying how the Battle Art began to take form in his battle against the Stone Saints.
'But for the third...' Zachary bit his thumb.
He sat in silence for a few minutes, wondering if he needed to learn a new weapon. But time was his scarcest resource. He needed something with enough mental presence to act as a tether.
"Perhaps... Flow Control?" he mused. 'I have a sword art, a body art... could Flow Control be considered an internal art?'
He laughed. It sounded plausible. And in the world of the Spell, plausibility was the first step toward reality.
'Now that I think about it... are there more applications for Flow Control?' Zachary arched an eyebrow, the gears of his mind turning. 'Flow Control is basically a cultivation technique. And with my Aspect Legacy, my Soul can take the shape of lightning. So...'
An excited smile spread across his face, a rare flash of the boy who used to read web novels in his spare time. He remembered stories of the "Heavenly Thunder Sect" and their legendary techniques to unify the heavens. What would happen if he channeled that lightning internally using Flow Control?
He didn't waste a second. He focused on the Core in his heart, channeling essence into his healthy hand. He reached into his Soul, pulling at that instinctive spark, accelerating it until it hummed with the frequency of a storm.
He regretted it instantly.
"Arghhhhh!" The scream tore from his throat as his arm began to spasm violently. He slammed his Soul back to its neutral state, his heart hammering in terror.
'Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck was that!?'
His arm continued to thrash, but the answer was written in the pain. Lightning, by its very nature, didn't care about the container. It followed the path of least resistance. By using his arteries as wires, the electricity had surged with impossible speed, but upon reaching the "dead end" of his hand, it hadn't stopped. It had burst through his capillaries and skin like a pressurized pipe exploding.
Zachary stared at his arm. The skin was split, and the veins beneath were dark and blown. Thankfully, Blood Weave was already knitting the vessels back together.
'The problem is clear,' he thought with a wince, forcing his breathing to level out. 'Flow Control is a one-way road. The lightning has to go somewhere.'
He sighed, the excitement draining into a dull ache. "I guess I really need to establish the back roads if I ever want to use Thunder Song this way..."
Zachary used the last of Kido's ointment on the fresh burns and collapsed back onto the bed, his feet dangling lazily over the edge. He had achieved more than he'd expected today, and there was still time left on the clock.
His eye drifted to Harper's letter and the Artisan bundle. His expression hardened as he sat up.
"Harper, Lester, Kido... they've shown me goodwill, even after everything." His voice was heavy, resonant in the quiet room. 'I cannot fail them. Not after getting this far.'
That nameless feeling—that spark of connection—tried to surge in his heart, but he buried it under a layer of cold, steel-plated motivation. His goal was finally in sight.
'I've gained strength. I've polished my tools. But the most important thing remains...' He rested his chin on his hand, his eye narrowing.
'I need a plan that can change the outcome of the Forgotten Shore.'
His heart thundered. Nervousness, dread, and a spark of defiance clashed in his chest. Fate had tried to crush him, to force him into a role or eliminate him for defying it, and he had refused. He had won, barely, through sheer spite.
Now he didn't just want to survive; he wanted to break the script.
When his "sentence" had first been cast, he'd had only a day to prepare. Now, he had nearly three months. He knew the characters. He knew the fated end. He could work with this.
"What's in my pocket?"
The words felt like a dark joke. Every time he used that phrase—Eddard's riddle and final teaching—the plan ended up exploding in his face. The Ashen Barrow, the Demon, the Dark Sea, the Stone Saints—every victory had been a desperate improvisation. But those plans, however flawed, were the reason he was still breathing.
And who could blame him? Those plans had been made in haste, lacking time and information. Now, he had both.
He stood up and grabbed a few parchments and a piece of charcoal from the bundle. But just as he was about to set the first mark, he froze. A chilling thought paralyzed his hand.
'What if by writing the plan, I make it real?'
Would Fate become aware of his thoughts the moment they hit the paper? Would the world twist itself to ensure its promised destiny stayed on track? The thought made him shudder. To doubt his own Mind, to be wary of a force that defied all logic... it was a special kind of hell.
A sudden wave of nausea invaded him. He stood there, charcoal trembling over the blank page, before he forced the insecurity deep into the dark corners of his mind.
He couldn't doubt. Not now.
With a shake of his head, Zachary decided to keep every gear of his plan locked within his mind. Perhaps it was for self-satisfaction, or perhaps it was a desperate attempt to gain a microscopic advantage over Fate. Whatever the excuse, he needed it to stop the rot of self-doubt.
'There are three main cores to Cassie's vision—and in turn, to the Forgotten Shore—that must be addressed if I ever want to see a different ending,' Zachary noted with grim sobriety.
The first was the rivers of blood and the sea of fire: the Civil War that would consume the Bright Castle once Gunlaug fell. Thankfully, he had already made his move. He'd sent Harper into the lion's den, and if the boy performed as expected, that would be the easiest variable to shift.
But that success birthed the most difficult hurdle.
'The Siege of the Crimson Spire...' Zachary muttered, a cold weight settling in his chest.
In the original timeline, after the Civil War, only five hundred Sleepers remained under Nephis's banner. Scarcely a hundred of them lived to see the Gateway. Their strategy had been a suicide mission—a massacre in every sense of the word. Even then, those survivors were monsters of efficiency, their Cores saturated by the "human shards" of their fallen comrades.
'If my plan with Harper works, there will be more Sleepers for the siege... but they'll be weaker. They won't have the slaughter to fuel them.'
The answer was clear: the strategy had to change entirely. But that brought its own set of problems.
"I'm no strategist," Zachary admitted to the empty room, inwardly cursing his lack of military expertise. His total tactical knowledge consisted of a hyper-fixated week spent reading about the Roman Empire in high school. Unfortunately, testudo formations and legionary tactics had little utility against the eldritch horrors of the Corruption.
"But oh well, nothing that time and trial and error can't—"
Zachary froze. His eye snapped toward the skeleton's pouch and the parchments spilling from it. 'Could it be?'
He scrambled toward them, upending the bag and letting the scrolls clatter messily across the floor. With trembling hands, he began checking the markings on the reverse. He found A1, A2, and A3. Finally, he gripped G10.
It wasn't just paper. It was a grid coordinate. It was a map.
Minutes later, in the oppressive shadows of the Priestess's room, a crimson and dark mosaic was splayed across the floor. Wide spots and jagged lines connected both ends of the parchment. Zachary couldn't recognize the landmarks, but the leftmost column was a solid, haunting wall of black and red.
"West..." he whispered, the words written in Sleeper's blood echoing in his mind. For those who come after...
His heart hammered a frantic rhythm. 'Why would they leave a map to the Crimson Spire in these ruins?'
The dead Sleeper was likely a member of the Second Bright Lord's ill-fated expedition. That was the only question he could answer. Zachary swallowed hard, the implications piling up. Why leave such a vital document behind? Why promise a future only to have it buried in the silt? And most importantly... why was he the one to find it?
Zachary wasn't a Fool—well, technically he was. And because of that Attribute, he knew Fate behaved like a predator around him. And said force didn't just bend; it resisted. How was it that the moment he needed a miracle to save the siege, he stumbled upon a detailed route to the Spire?
The sensation of being observed returned, crawling over his skin like insects. He shivered, realizing there was absolutely nothing he could do against the "Gaze" of the world.
'I have a map. Great.' He tried to bury his dread under pragmatism. 'But how I use it is the real question. What can I change?'
He sat in silence for hours, the charcoal in his hand untouched. Unable to find a breakthrough, he turned to the final core of the prophecy with a heavy sigh. The final curtain of the Forgotten Shore.
'The Burning Wheel.'
He whispered the words like a prayer of finality. For some reason, Cassie's vision predicted a clash between him and Nephis at the apex of the Spire. The collapse of the wheel into eternal darkness meant Zachary's fall. It was a prophecy Cassie had already begun to cement by feeding Nephis information about a weakness he didn't even know he had.
"How fun," Zachary said, his voice dripping with dry, bitter sarcasm.
His mind turned back to the original prophecy. The Angel devoured by a hungry shadow, Sunny's desperate clash against Nephis for entry into the Gateway—
His eye sharpened. No matter how much the variables of the Siege shifted, Nephis's soul defense remained an absolute. She would still be the one to climb the Spire and clash against the weakened Fallen Terror, eventually taking its place as the Soul Conduit.
Caster, ever the loyal scion of a Legacy clan, would still attempt his mission to dispose of Changing Star, but even a weakened Nephis wouldn't fall to his blade. If Zachary escaped the Crimson Spire before the curtain fell on that betrayal, he could avoid his fate as the Burning Wheel.
Nephis would then remain trapped in the Forgotten Shore, treading the Nightmare Desert alone, eventually conquering the Nightmare Seed as a mere Sleeper to return as the scorched remains of Changing Star of the Immortal Flame Clan.
But a chilling realization halted his heart, one that made him curse his situation and unwanted existence. Sunny wasn't here...
There was no Shadow Bond.
Whatever his opinions on that debatable tether, the Bond was the only thing that had anchored Nephis to her humanity during her nightmarish journey. And yet, Zachary was well aware that even without it, Nephis would achieve the impossible through sheer, unbreakable will. But what would be lost in the process?
'Perhaps the Nephis that returns will just be a Star meant to bring Ruin to everything, caring for nothing and no one...'
The original narrative was already fraying at the edges; while Zachary was actively tearing it apart on his own volition. Attempting to preserve the canon was a foolish endeavor, one that he wasn't willing to take even while being a Fool himself.
Yet, he wasn't willing to gamble on a version of Nephis who had shed her humanity to survive.
Zachary was aware that if he ver wanted to return home, he would need her help—he needed Nephis, not whatever hollowed weapon of war that might return.
He needed her to keep her humanity.
The nameless feeling surged again, stronger this time. 'Her Second Nightmare in the Underworld... it was a defining moment for her. Can I really strip that development away just because it doesn't fit my plan?'
Zachary inmediatly shook his head violently, dispelling the doubt. What was he even saying? Preserving someone's humanity wasn't a sin. And if he was worried about her growth, he could just be the one to help her become a better person.
"And if things change in unknown ways..." he whispered into the dark, "I just need to be strong enough to respond to them."
Zachary stood up, the crimson map crinkling beneath his shoes. He stretched his neck and twisted his torso until his spine creaked in protest. His body was still a wreck, preventing any physical training in the ruins. Instead, he would use this forced convalescence to set the board and prepare his pieces.
"I'm going to be even more overworked from now on..." A wry, bitter laugh escaped his lips. "No rest for the wicked, I guess."
And for the next several days, Zachary ignored the needs of his Body and Soul, retreating entirely into the labyrinth of his Mind. He barely ate. He stayed awake for days at a time, using Balance Control to shave his sleep down to the absolute biological minimum required to function.
In the suffocating darkness of the Cathedral, Zachary began to strategize. He ran simulations through every fragment of his consciousness. Every time he hit a blind spot or an uncertainty, he etched a mental note. He never touched the charcoal. He never marked the paper.
As the days bled into one another, his ruined face grew gaunter, his cheeks hollow. His lips were a mess of scabs from constant biting.
Finally, with only two months left on the clock, Zachary was back in the game.