Chapter 160
Past the shattered gates, the air grew heavier with every step, thick and damp, as though the castle itself exhaled decay into their lungs. The stench was unbearable, rotting marrow, wet earth, and mold steeped in centuries of blood. The corridors were wide, once carved with banners and tapestries, yet now their grandeur was drowned beneath black fungal growths that clung like veins of corruption, pulsing faintly as if tumors rooted in the very stone. Torches sputtered with a sickly green flame instead of fire, their glow twisting the shadows into the silhouettes of dying men, swaying against walls that seemed to breathe. Every stone beneath their boots whispered with moaning echoes, the castle remembering every life it had swallowed. Overhead, cracked murals hinted at past glory, kings and saints painted in triumph, now veiled beneath centuries of dust and mold, their faces obscured as though history itself recoiled. What had once been a kingdom was now nothing but a mausoleum.
Mary Kaye's fingers tightened around her shovel, knuckles whitening. Her eyes lingered on the walls and the faint trembling of the fungal veins. She thought of graves, of soil turned sour, of worlds where the dead refused to stay dead. Charlotte Lazarus, her blade still wet from the carnage outside, moved ahead with steady steps, wiping gore from steel as though ritual. "Rot has eaten this place alive," she murmured, her voice low, carrying like a dirge. "It isn't a castle anymore. It's a corpse wearing stone for skin."
The sound came gradually, insidious—first the faint dripping of water, then a rhythm like wet flesh tearing, then a hundred whispers slurring into one unbroken murmur. Each step drew them closer to its source, until at last the massive throne hall doors rose before them—iron-bound, cracked open, green light bleeding through the seams like venom leaking from a wound. Their hinges groaned as they pushed through, and the stench rushed out to meet them, rancid and wet, forcing bile to the back of Farrah's throat.
The throne hall was vast, a cathedral of ruin. Shattered stained glass littered the floor like jagged teeth, cracked pillars leaned as though straining under the weight of centuries, and the once-proud throne at the hall's heart was drowned beneath a pulsating mound of flesh. The sight froze them. Upon that throne, seated like a king of rot, was the Cursed Lord of Erethune.
He was no longer man but abomination, a grotesque mountain stitched from hundreds of corpses: peasants, knights, beasts, even children, all fused together in one obscene mass. A slug-like bulk stretched over three meters tall, folds of rotten meat sagging, ichor dripping onto stone and hissing where it fell.
From its swollen torso sprouted a dozen elongated arms, some ending in skeletal hands fused with rusted swords, others clutching axes, spears, and shields still locked within the gauntlets of the knights he had consumed. The weapons twitched and scraped against one another as though the corpses remembered their purpose.
His crown, broken, half-buried, was lodged in a skull split wide, teeth layered upon teeth, tongues writhing within the hollow. Eyes opened and closed across his body, stolen from the fused dead, green, red, and void-black, flickering like lanterns in a storm. From his distended belly, half-formed heads of knights jutted out, jaws locked open in silent screams, their faces twisted in eternal agony.
Every breath he exhaled was a swarm of flies. Slime streamed down his bulk in rivers, eating away the stone where it touched. The throne itself shuddered beneath his weight, as though protesting the corruption it bore. The corpses within him shifted and groaned, armor scraping like the clatter of bones, a sound so human and yet so utterly wrong it twisted their stomachs.
When the monster spoke, it was not with one voice but with hundreds—men and women, knights and children, all overlapping into a chorus that roared and whispered at once:
"We… are… still… his…"
The hall shook with the weight of the words, dust falling in a rain from the cracked ceiling.
Natasha Sokolov raised her crossbow, icy mist curling around her fingers. Her voice, sharp even in fear, trembled just enough to betray her dread. "What… what is this?" she whispered, as if naming it might make it more real. Jacob Lazarus clenched his fists, molten cracks glowing across his arms, sweat glistening on his brow. His jaw tightened like iron. A lord who feasted on his own knights—on his own people. A king who devoured his kingdom. It was more than sin. It was blasphemy. Such a creature deserved only fire.
Farrah staggered, pressing her hand against her lips, bile rising as the vines around her ankles writhed with unease. Her gift, her connection to life, recoiled in terror. Every breath screamed at her: this is not life. This is a garden of rot.
Mary Kaye planted her shovel into the stone floor with a resounding crack, forcing her own terror down. Her voice, clear and sharp as steel, cut through the choking fear that threatened to paralyze them. "Don't look at what it was," she said. "Look at what it is. This is no king. This is a curse given flesh."
The abomination stirred. Slowly, monstrously, the Corpse Lord rose from the throne, his bulk lurching upward, arms spreading like a grotesque halo. The fused knights across his body wailed in unison, their voices bleeding into one another until despair and fury became one endless sound. Each step corroded the stone, leaving holes that smoked as though the castle itself recoiled. Weapons scraped, ichor dripped, and with every movement the air grew colder, thicker, until it felt like breathing inside a tomb.
The first battle outside had been bloody. But this—this was something else entirely.
This was the true heart of Erethune.
The Corpse Lord struck first.
Its grotesque arms, dozens of them, swung outward with a sound like snapping timbers. Rusted blades screeched as they scraped against stone, then carved forward in a storm of steel and rotting flesh. The throne hall quaked under the impact. One sweep shattered a row of cracked pillars, sending rubble tumbling as dust cascaded through the green light. The sound of hundreds of voices screamed within its flesh as if the very act of moving tore new agony from the dead trapped inside.
Charlotte reacted instantly, her blade flashing to intercept a descending axe-arm that could have cleaved a squad in half. Sparks exploded as steel met rust, the sheer force pushing her back across the stone floor, boots skidding. Natasha loosed a bolt of glowing frost that struck the creature's side, shattering into ice that hissed as it sank into necrotic tissue. Jacob's fists ignited in molten light as he drove forward, punching into the Corpse Lord's bulk, burning holes through layers of rotten meat that immediately squirmed to knit shut again.
But while the guild's leaders held the abomination's attention, Daniel slipped into the shadows along the ruined walls, his gaze sharp and calculating. They had agreed before entering: others would take the brunt of the Corpse Lord's opening fury while he double-checked the surrounding chambers.
Erethune was not merely a battlefield,it was a vault of hidden truths. And unlike the first cursed cities, where every reward had been a trap wrapped in misfortune, Erethune was different. He remembered the old maps, the fragmented guides, the way rumors had once spread back when this world was still only a game. Here, in this city, one could find the living ornaments. Rare relics that resonated with mana itself, capable of repairing broken veins and correcting distortions in the soul.
The guild's three hundred members pushed outward from the hall, fanning into the castle's adjoining wings and into the streets beyond. The undead surged like waves, clawing out of collapsed homes and broken crypts, but these were not the horrors that had clustered near the throne. These were weaker, fragmented husks, brittle bones and half-rotted bodies that cracked beneath the weight of training and steel. The guild had drilled for weeks for this very moment, their formations tight, healers and ranged fighters shielded by warriors, the rhythm of their assault echoing like a war drum.
And in that storm, the guild members began to earn.
Tamara, the healer, pressed her palms together as a cluster of undead swarmed her squad. She pushed her mana outward and braced for impact, but instead of draining her, the green glow of a shattered window caught her eye. From the rubble spilled a crystalline feather, faintly pulsing with warmth. She snatched it mid-cast, and to her shock, her next healing wave flared brighter than ever before, the light knitting flesh twice as fast. Her mana veins steadied, reinforced. The Ornament of Renewal had chosen her.
Not far away, Mariya raised her staff, weaving hexes to bind a group of armored skeletons. Yet the curses clung too strongly, threatening to backfire. As she faltered, her boot struck something—half-buried beneath bones. She dug it free: a mask carved of obsidian, its surface etched with runes that shimmered faintly purple. When she donned it, her voice deepened, her curse magic amplified tenfold, and the skeletons withered into black ash. The Mask of Hollow Tongues, a living ornament bound to her craft.
Fedorova, mistress of ice, hurled spears that shattered ranks of ghouls. But her aim faltered when frost backlashed along her arm. Gritting her teeth, she raised her hand to shield herself, only for a shard of blue crystal, embedded in a broken statue, to glow in response. She seized it. Instantly, the backlash ceased. Her ice swirled smoothly now, obedient, no longer tearing at her veins. The Heart of Stillwater, a living ornament of calm mana rested in her grip.
Radinka, the axe warrior, laughed amid the slaughter, her weapon cleaving through lines of rotting soldiers. But her swings slowed as exhaustion bled into her muscles. Then, buried in the ribcage of a fallen knight, she spotted a small bronze clasp, etched with a war sigil. She ripped it free and fastened it to her belt. Heat surged through her limbs, her axe blazing with a strength beyond mortal fatigue. The Berserker's Knot had bound itself to her.
Kuzmina, the beast-shapeshifter, tore through enemies with claws and teeth, but her transformations left her gasping, her body straining under the weight of constant shifts. In the ruins of a bestiary chamber, she stumbled upon a collar, made of leather yet alive with veins of light. The moment she touched it, her transformations smoothed, flowing like water instead of ripping at her insides. The Collar of Ten Thousand Forms had found its master.
Nataliya, blade flashing, danced through the fray like silver lightning. Her sword rang against a rusted knight's halberd, sparks trailing her every move. But the fight dragged, and her breath shortened—until she caught sight of a pendant hanging from the neck of a long-dead squire. She pulled it free mid-combat, and instantly her blade burned with steady strength, each strike falling with perfect clarity. The Pendant of the Sword's Oath answered her will.
Aleksandrova, her bowstring singing, pinned ghouls to crumbling walls one after another. But her quiver neared empty. She cursed, searching desperately, until she spotted a quiver, woven of bone and sinew, glowing faintly. When she reached for it, arrows of pure light formed within. Endless, eternal. The Quiver of Pale Arrows settled upon her shoulders.
And Irinushka, wielding her musket wreathed in sorcery, fired shot after shot until smoke choked her vision. The weapon's recoil rattled her bones. Then she found it: a musket rest, carved of ironwood, half-buried in the throne room rubble. When she touched it, the recoil vanished, her shots ringing smooth and true, each round infused with her mana rather than drained by it. The Ironwood Rest of Precision had chosen her.
Across the castle and its ruined streets, the guild members surged, their fear transmuted into fire. The weak undead fell in droves, experience flowing into them like blood through new veins. For every rotten husk that crumbled, another guild member found strength in the ornaments that Erethune had hidden for centuries.
And in the heart of it all, the Corpse Lord bellowed, his many voices rising in an endless scream, his bulk dragging forward, arms crashing, every movement drowning the hall in despair. While the others gained strength, Daniel pressed deeper into the ruins, his eyes hunting for one particular ornament, the one said to be hidden in the lord's own shadow.
Because Erethune was not merely another cursed city. It was one of the three that mattered. And if the rumors were true, the greatest ornament here was yet to be claimed.
The strike force assembled, the finest among the joint guilds.
Charlotte Lazarus surged forward, fire trailing along her twin blades, each swing carving molten arcs that seared into the Corpse Lord's mass. Beside her strode Jacob Lazarus, his body glowing with molten cracks, every punch erupting with the fury of a volcano.
Oliver moved like a shadow, poison darts glinting green as he slipped between allies, striking at exposed tissue and driving venom into rotting veins. Farrah raised her arms and the ground obeyed, roots bursting upward, weaving into thick walls of thorn and vine that slowed the abomination's advance.
Natasha Sokolov, the White Devil vice-captain, lifted her crossbow, every shot exploding in a burst of frost and water, chilling entire swathes of corrupted flesh. Kevin Hall's wind slashes screamed through the air, cutting into putrid arms. Myrtle Welch answered with water slashes, each impact striking like a flood crashing against stone. Madison Warner, her fire surging bright, hurled blazing spheres that detonated against the Corpse Lord's body, searing dead flesh into smoke.
Myrtle's water doused Charlotte's flames at the right moments, allowing her to strike deeper. Natasha's frost hardened flesh until Jacob shattered it with one blow. Oliver's poison slowed the creature's regeneration, while Farrah's vines bound weapons fused to its body, holding them down just long enough for Kevin's wind and Madison's fire to tear them free.
And behind them, Trix Reed's voice rang clear, channeling every ounce of her mana into layered healing spells, shimmering light wrapping over burns and broken bones. Each incantation drained her dry, her skin paling, but she did not falter. Without her, the strike force would have broken in minutes.
Together, the guild elites fought as one machine, synchronized, sharpened, relentless. Their training and discipline turned the battle from impossible slaughter to a desperate but balanced struggle.
And all the while, Daniel vanished into the castle's deeper halls, his eyes searching for the rumored ornament. Chaos mana burned faintly beneath his skin, unpredictable, violent. He knew its raw power could topple armies, but chaos always left traces—flickers that sharp eyes could notice, distortions that enemies could exploit. If he found the sentient ornament of Erethune, he could mask it, refine it, wield it in silence until the time came to reveal its full weight. In this world, hiding power was survival.
But not everyone fought with discipline.
Amid the three hundred, scattered squads pursued their own greed. They had heard whispers too, of rare ornaments, relics, hidden caches, and believed the battle nothing more than an opportunity to snatch wealth while the elites held the line. They forgot the pact. They forgot that this was no longer a game.
The first death came swiftly: a warrior broke from formation, charging into a ruined side hall where he thought treasure gleamed. He didn't see the corpse knight waiting there, chained to the wall until prey drew near. The knight's halberd cleaved him from shoulder to hip, his scream cut short as his entrails hit the stones.
Two rogues followed, prying open a sealed chest glowing faintly with green runes. They laughed when the lock clicked open, then their laughter turned to shrieks as skeletal hands burst outward, seizing their faces. Their skulls cracked like eggs, brains splattering across the walls.
A mage in his arrogance tried to bind a horde of lesser undead alone, confident his spells were enough. His incantation faltered. The ghouls swarmed, tearing him limb from limb, his screams muffled as they stuffed his severed arm into his own throat.
Another trio wandered from formation, chasing whispers of a relic inside a collapsed chapel. The floor gave way beneath them. They fell into a pit of writhing corpses—half-formed, half-dead. Flesh tore, teeth sank into soft bellies, and their bodies were dragged under as though into quicksand. Their screams echoed long after their blood stained the stones.
The eleventh death came from pure negligence: a healer stopped to loot a corpse instead of staying with her squad. The Corpse Lord's breath reached her first—a cloud of flies that blackened the air. They entered her nose, her ears, her eyes. She staggered, thrashing, until her own body burst from the inside, hollowed into a twitching husk.
And the twelfth was cruelest. A knight, greedy for glory, tried to strike the Corpse Lord alone, thinking to land a blow worthy of song. The abomination caught him in one massive arm, armor screeching as it crushed his ribs. His screams joined the hundreds already inside its mass as his body was pressed inward, flesh fusing, eyes bulging. His face appeared a moment later on the Corpse Lord's belly, mouth open in endless, soundless horror.
Twelve dead. Twelve too many. Their blood painted the stones, their mistakes warnings carved into the ruin itself.
And the survivors understood then why, for five years, no guild had ever cleared Erethune. The quest was not hard because the enemy was strong, it was hard because greed and negligence killed faster than any monster. This was no game anymore. Here, death was final.
The strike force roared, redoubling their assault. Trix Reed's voice cracked with exhaustion but did not stop. Charlotte's blades burned hotter, Jacob's fists hit harder, Natasha's frost bit deeper. The elites refused to let the dead be forgotten.
And deep in the castle's bones, Daniel pressed onward, guided by whispers of a living ornament that pulsed like a hidden heart. The Corpse Lord was the face of the curse. But the true key of Erethune still waited in the shadows.
Daniel extended his hand, palm open, letting the silence swallow him. The living ornament trembled in the air, its crystalline wings thrumming so fast they left ripples of light with every beat. For a heartbeat it seemed to consider him, then it recoiled, darting back in a blur, streaking to the rafters as though stung by the chaos coiled within him.
The light it shed dimmed, flickering like a flame threatened by storm winds. Daniel stood motionless, but inside he understood. His chaotic mana was too volatile, too unrefined, its very presence was a scar across his veins. No ordinary artifact could bind to him. This creature, this living ornament—was not fleeing out of fear, but out of judgment.
He inhaled deeply, lowering his hand. "You see it, don't you?" he whispered. His voice was low, steady, meant not for dominance but for recognition. "The cracks. The fractures in my flow. I won't deny them."
The ornament vibrated, its shape shifting once more. Its body elongated into a shard, then collapsed into a teardrop, before finally stabilizing into something more defined: a tiny humanoid figure no larger than a sparrow, wings crystalline and transparent, a body like flowing glass threaded with veins of golden light. Its face was faceless, but its gaze—those molten gold eyes—burned with awareness.
It was sentient, and it was testing his truth.
Daniel drew out his mana deliberately. Chaos swirled along his arms, black and violet currents clashing violently like a storm-tide. Normally, exposing it frightened others, but now he bared it fully, letting the ornament witness its wildness. The creature flinched, its wings snapping faster as if ready to bolt. But instead of chasing, Daniel closed his eyes and pressed his hand against his chest, steadying the storm. Slowly, painfully, he forced the chaotic currents into a single stream, fragile as a thread. He could not hold it for long, but it was enough to show—he was not ruled by his power. He could master it.
The ornament stilled.
Then, with a sharp pulse of golden light, it dove. A streak like a comet, straight into his palm. The impact wasn't physical, it was like plunging his arm into molten glass. Light surged up his veins, searing every nerve, and Daniel clenched his teeth against a cry. The ornament's mana raced through him, colliding with his chaos. For a moment, he felt himself being torn apart, his blood boiling, his body threatening to split from within. The chaos lashed like a beast in chains, furious at being touched, but the ornament wrapped around it—not crushing, not erasing, but weaving.
He realized then what it truly was.
The living ornament wasn't just alive, it was a healer of mana. A relic born to mend the fractures of existence itself. Where others might use it for power boosts or blessings, for him it was salvation.
The pain dulled. The chaos that once scattered wildly through his veins began to braid, strands that once clashed now folding into patterns. His mana flow smoothed, his heart no longer thundering under constant strain. The ornament left a permanent seal within him, not suppressing the chaos, but carving channels for it to flow with purpose.
The blessing had taken root.
And as it settled, a new stream of information opened before his mind's eye, the reshaped lattice of his skill tree. Where once his abilities branched wildly, splintering into dozens of unstable paths, now they converged. The ornament's blessing had locked wasted branches, redirecting them into a cleaner, sharper design. Skills that had once drained him erratically now consumed mana evenly. Mutations of spells that had been uncontrollable now aligned into tiered evolutions. His offensive spells gained stability, his defenses became less brittle, and his unique chaos-infused techniques, those only he could wield, were now highlighted in gold as if acknowledged by the ornament itself.
For the first time, Daniel felt not fractured, not burdened, but whole.
The ornament's form lingered above his palm for a moment longer, wings still thrumming faintly. Then it folded its crystalline arms, hovering close as though it had chosen him—not as a master, but as a bearer. Its golden eyes pulsed once in approval before it melted back into his chest, fusing its light with his veins.
Daniel exhaled shakily, sweat trailing down his temple. Outside, the battle still raged, the roars of the Corpse Lord shaking the ruins. But inside this broken house, something fundamental had shifted.
He was no longer Daniel, the man fighting against his own chaos.
He was Daniel, bearer of the living ornament, his chaos now a blade, not a burden.
Daniel staggered against the wall, breath ragged, but it wasn't from exhaustion—it was from the shock of what he was feeling. For the first time since awakening in this world, the constant weight pressing on his chest was gone. His formless armor, once a shroud that bled an oppressive aura, no longer crushed the air around him or struck dread into allies and enemies alike. It clung to his body with a quiet discipline, seamless and unobtrusive, no longer screaming with every pulse of his chaotic mana. What once made hearts quake now moved like a second skin—silent, steady, dependable.
His offensive spells too had changed in ways that startled him. Fire, once a roaring inferno that tore through the battlefield like a beast unchained, now condensed into sharp, controlled bursts. Lightning, once wild and untamable, now crackled with precision—its arcs cutting only where he willed, no longer lashing out with reckless collateral.
Each high-tier spell, which had once flared in grandiose, world-shaking displays, now manifested as though it were ordinary—compact, refined, deadly efficient. To onlookers it might appear unimpressive, a simple flicker of fire, a snap of electricity—but the ornament's blessing had compressed their essence, concealing overwhelming power in restrained motions. His magic no longer shouted for attention. It whispered—and the whisper was far more dangerous.
Even his utility skills bore the mark of change. His assessment skill, which once required long moments of concentration and a rush of chaotic mana to peel apart the truth of an object, now flowed with simple clarity. A glance was enough, the process smooth, his mind and mana in sync rather than grinding against each other. His healing, once messy and painful—an uncontrolled flood of chaos that often threatened to harm as much as it mended—was now refined into a gentle, steady channel. Wounds closed without backlash, the process shortened from minutes to mere heartbeats.
The second evolution was not about gaining spectacular new powers. It was about refinement. The ornament had taken his jagged edges, his chaotic inconsistencies, and smoothed them into a coherent flow. Every skill felt lighter, more natural, as though he had finally been given the body and mind they were meant for.
But more than that, Daniel himself felt different. His emotions, once dragged by the turbulence of his mana, now moved with clarity. He no longer carried the fear of losing control every time he cast. He no longer braced for the judgment of others when his power darkened the air. The refinement of his skill tree was not only technical, it was emotional.
For the first time, Daniel felt like he was evolving with his own abilities. His mind no longer lagged behind his power; his heart no longer wrestled with its weight. He was calmer, sharper, more deliberate. The ornament had not made him stronger in the way others sought raw strength. It had made him whole.
And as he straightened, letting his armor settle like a calm ripple across his frame, Daniel realized something profound. Strength was not only in destruction, in overwhelming force. Strength was also in mastery, in silence, in restraint. That was the gift the living ornament had given him, and it was worth more than any cursed treasure hidden in the ruins.
The ornament's blessing had just finished settling into Daniel's body when far above the battlefield, beyond the veil of mortal perception, an old presence stirred. One of the Six, an entity not bound by flesh or stone, leaned closer.
The God of Time had been watching the march on Erethune like one might watch ants scurrying across sand. But when Daniel's mana shifted, when the jagged turbulence of chaos condensed into something refined, it paused. That refinement was not natural. It was not written into the threads of fate. What the god saw was something that should not exist.
"Impossible…" The God of Time's voice was like gears grinding, every syllable an echo stretching across centuries. "Mortals do not shape chaos… chaos shapes them."
Curiosity pressed harder. Time uncoiled, streams of past and future opening like thousands of mirrors. It reached for Daniel, peeling at the fabric of his history, searching for the point of fracture. what had forged this boy into something that could twist chaos itself into order.
And then...
Something snapped back.
Not like prey caught in a net, but like a predator biting the hand that reached for it. The god's vision cracked, time-screens shattering into shards of memory. Where it expected to see the neat chronology of Daniel's birth, childhood, and rise—it saw only distortion. Black threads coiling, twisting, strangling the flow of history.
A voice thundered out of that darkness, not Daniel's voice, not Dane Lazarus' voice, but something inside him:
"Do not pry."
The God of Time reeled, its essence burning where the backlash struck. This was no mere mortal. This was a soul threaded with something… alien. Something older than even the gods themselves.
For a moment, the god's vast awareness flickered, caught in that resistance. And in that flicker, Daniel's own personality surfaced—his inner voice calm, sharp, deliberate: You think you can read me like a book of years? You'll choke on the ink before you ever see the ending.
Charlotte Lazarus, still locked in combat below, felt a ripple in the air. Her instincts sharpened, her inner voice a blade of loyalty and suspicion: Daniel, what are you hiding? But she forced her focus back to the Corpse Lord, unwilling to let distraction weaken her.
Natasha Sokolov, steady as ice, raised her crossbow and thought: That mana shift… it's like fighting beside a stranger wearing his face. Power like that doesn't change quietly. Yet she said nothing aloud. Natasha's pragmatism was as cold as her spells: if Daniel became a threat, she would cut him down, even if the others hesitated.
Jacob Lazarus felt his own molten mana stir violently, cracking his skin with heat. He clenched his jaw, his inner voice a coil of defiance: He's still hiding. Always hiding. But if this makes him stronger—fine. So long as he doesn't turn it on us.
And far above them all, the God of Time trembled, its vast form recoiling into the folds of eternity. For the first time in aeons, it felt something close to fear. What it had touched was not a simple mortal memory. It was a labyrinth filled with fangs, with shadows that moved against the current of time itself.
The god whispered into the void, voice shaken and hollow:
"Daniel Lazarus… or Dane… whatever you are… you should not exist."
But even as it said so, the god could not look away. Curiosity, even for gods, was a curse.
The backlash tore through the God of Time's vision, shattering its divine sight into fragments. Yet even in ruin, shards of history slipped through.
In those shards, the god glimpsed something alien to this world. Steel towers that pierced the clouds. Screens glowing with digital fire. Humanity chained to machines that promised eternity through illusion. And in the heart of that illusion—him.
Damon Lazarus.
The boy Daniel carried the shadow of a different self, a creator who once forged a world called Arcane Crusade. Not a game, but a prison of dreams, written by twelve hands and bound by Damon's vision. What the god saw was not memory alone—it was origin. This "mortal" was not born of this land. He was the architect of it.
The God of Time recoiled. This was not supposed to be. The cycle of mortal birth, death, and rebirth did not permit such things. A creator should never walk within his own creation. To see Damon here, clothed as Daniel Lazarus, was to witness a paradox that could unravel the threads of fate.
And in that realization, for the first time in uncounted ages, the god faltered. Doubt crept into its eternal voice:
"Daniel… Damon… you are neither player nor pawn. You are the hand that drew the board. But the hand should never have fallen inside the painting. You… are a fracture."
It withdrew, but unease lingered. Fractures spread. Fractures break. And if this one remained unchecked, the God of Time knew—the story written by the Old Gods themselves might collapse.
Daniel paused mid-step. A faint tremor crawled up his spine, not from the clash of the Corpse Lord's roars in the hall beyond, nor from the shrieks of dying guild members behind him. No—this was deeper. A pressure that had no sound, no form, yet pressed against his mind like a nail scraping glass. For a heartbeat, his vision flickered. He saw neither stone nor corpses, but something else—mirrors breaking, gears grinding, a shadow that wasn't supposed to exist bending close to peer inside him.
His fingers clenched reflexively. The ornament at his chest pulsed once, as though reacting, and the formless armor rippled like it sensed an intruder. Then it was gone. The sensation snapped shut, leaving only silence.
But Daniel's gut twisted. Someone—something—had tried to pry. He didn't know from where, or when, but the weight of it lingered like cold iron against his skin. His inner voice sharpened, quiet but edged with steel: Don't dig where you shouldn't. I am not yours to dissect.
Across the ruined hall, Charlotte caught a glimpse of him stilling, his gaze unfocused for just a second. Her instincts tensed, whispering that something had brushed against him, something she couldn't see. Natasha noticed too, her eyes narrowing, the hunter in her silently marking Daniel like prey whose scent had suddenly shifted.
Far above them, unseen, the God of Time recoiled from the backlash, its essence frayed by the violent resistance. Fragments of Damon's buried truth still cut like glass in its vision, but the message had been clear: he was not to be touched. And for the first time in eons, the god wavered, not in power, but in certainty. If I cannot read him, then who can? If he truly is the hand that drew the board, what happens when that hand no longer follows the lines?
Below, Daniel straightened, burying the unease as quickly as it came. He had no luxury for distractions, not now, not here. Yet as he resumed his steps, there was a flicker behind his eyes, a quiet realization that unsettled him:
He was not just being watched. He was being judged.
The God of Time, still trembling from the violent backlash that had nearly torn through its essence, steadied itself in the silence of the astral plane. Its timeless gaze, normally detached and impartial, now carried a rare heaviness. What it had attempted was simple—just a glimpse, a thread plucked from the weave of one mortal's past.
Yet the moment its power brushed against Daniel's essence, something ancient and nameless had risen like a serpent from the abyss, striking back with such ferocity that even a god recoiled. That response was not natural, not something mortals—or even Ascended beings—should have possessed. It was a warning, a defense mechanism, and an unmistakable declaration: Do not trespass.
But the God of Time was not merely curious. Bound by the eternal laws of balance, it carried both the burden and obligation to report anomalies to the higher order—the Administrators. And so, even though part of it hesitated, sensing the danger of exposure, its bitterness toward Daniel tilted the scale. There was something about this mortal that unsettled it, a rising thorn that could pierce even divinity if left unchecked. Daniel moved like a contradiction, carrying chaos yet molding it into order, breaking rules of mana that had held firm since the dawn of creation. Such defiance against the natural flow was intolerable.
And so, in secret, the God of Time bent its will, whispering across the divine lattice where only the Administrators could listen. Its voice carried no fear—only a veiled satisfaction that perhaps this burden could now be shifted.
"There is an anomaly. The mortal named Daniel, who now calls himself Dane Lazarus, resists even me. His past is locked by something not of this era, not of this world. It is dangerous, and I cannot pierce it. You must correct this."
Deep within, however, the god's inner voice betrayed a different tone, one it would never admit: unease. It feared what it had touched, what had brushed against its timeless essence. For all its disdain toward the mortal, there was now a sliver of dread, whispering that perhaps Daniel was not a mistake to be corrected… but a storm none of them were prepared to face.
Far above the endless lattice of worlds, within the cold and immaculate chambers of the Twelve Administrators, Sigma stirred. For eons, his face had been a mask carved from marble—expressionless, patient, bound to the laws that governed the Tower.
Yet now, for the first time in countless cycles, a smile crept across his lips, sharp and deliberate. The whisper of the God of Time had reached him, not as a warning, but as permission, no, a directive. An anomaly had been confirmed, named, and presented to him on a silver platter. Daniel. Dane Lazarus. The mortal who moved like a paradox, the piece Sigma had been aching to remove from the board.
Before, his hands had been tied. As long as Daniel remained a registered player, the Tower's core laws wrapped around him like chains of protection. Administrators could observe, calculate, and nudge, but not directly sever. Only the Gatekeepers, custodians of order at the Tower's thresholds, held jurisdiction over removal.
Sigma had tried, of course, subtle corrections, careful manipulations, shifting quests, distorting pathways, tightening trials—but Daniel slipped through each one, adapting with maddening fluidity. It was as if the Tower itself bent around him instead of crushing him. That alone had made Sigma wary.
But now… now a god's testimony broke the stalemate. The God of Time had named him an anomaly, a threat to balance. That was all Sigma needed. With that divine charge, he could act not as a personal hand of malice, but as the Tower's executioner, righteous, justified, unstoppable.
His smile widened as he leaned back against the endless scrolls of law, fingers tapping with a predator's rhythm. For the first time, the barriers that restrained him were gone. He could descend from his cold perch, not to merely watch, but to touch the board directly.
And in the depths of his mind, Sigma's inner voice resonated with a chilling certainty: Finally… the game can be corrected. The storm this mortal carries will end before it breaks the Tower itself.