OUTSKIRTS OF GOURMAND CITY
an alleyway tavern was thick with smoke and the stench of sweat and spilled ale. It was the kind of place where men buried their troubles at the bottom of a cup, hoping the next sip might drown them for good.
A heavy-set man with a face like weathered stone slammed his tankard down, the liquid inside sloshing over his knuckles.
"His Divinity will not save us," he muttered, his voice hoarse as if the words scraped against his throat.
The tavern, already thick with murmurs, quieted for a beat before exploding into overlapping voices.
"Thousands! Thousands of years the last time His Divinity walked the land!" a man with a graying beard bellowed, his knuckles white against his cup.
A wiry man in the corner let out a bitter chuckle, swishing the dregs of his drink.
"Blasphemy? Blasphemy? His Divinity is the First Acme who has always protected Dyson, and look at us! The Grelon Empire is thriving under his Eidolon Pantheon!
He leaned forward, his eyes swimming with drink and desperation."His Divinity will never abandon us."
A grizzled man grumbled over his mug. "Where was he when Numen Acasta enslaved our people? He watched as the madman Ascended as The Almighty and become the Ninth Fallen Acme.
"His Pantheon promised to lead our Ancestors back home."
"And now? What happened to that promise? All they care about is taxes."
Another voice cut through the tavern's din, sharp and bitter. "Santis Grelon has been dead to me the day my daughter was ravaged and slaughtered by those Tarturus Crittens."
The speaker was a scarred man, his face flushed from drink or grief—it was hard to tell. He jabbed a finger in the air, his frustration barely contained.
"Santis Grelon just watches from his Nefari City in the clouds as Fallen Acme do as they please."
Fearful murmurs rippled through the crowd after the man addressed His Divinity with just His name.
"Are you afraid?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Santis will not do anything he can't fulfill simple promises."
He slammed his mug down, the liquid inside sloshing over the rim. His tone grew darker.
"We should abandon that coward and pray to the Grand Marshal of the Eidolon Pantheon Cael Ardour."
He paused, swaying slightly. "He is the only one protecting this damn Empire not some high and mighty God who has disappeared for centuries."
Drunken murmurs of agreement rippled through the tavern, the dim candlelight flickering over scowling faces.
"Cael is a filthy wretch," someone spat, voice slurred with drink. "Ever since he became the Grand Marshal Wars have erupted all over the place."
Another voice, gruffer and soaked in bitterness, chimed in. "The Pantheon will use us mortals as meat shields once again."
At the far end of the table, a woman with a muscular build and a short skirt sat brazenly on the table, grabbing a cup and downing a swig without hesitation. The sudden, brazen act pulled every pair of drunken eyes to her.
"Let's all head to the Acme's fancy Nefari City in the sky and set it on fire."
The table erupted. Voices rose in outrage, chairs scraped against the floor.
In the corner, two men sat quietly observing the ruckus.
Siah leaned back in his chair. "Old man Theal told me about your little blackmail."
Michael with a weathered cap, and his long coat that smelled of whiskey look at Siah letting out a hoarse chuckle. "Your brother is exaggerating you and I are very close friends I merely suggested we cooperate."
Siah furrowed his brows. "I have no interest in working with you."
Michael pulled out a note from his coat with great difficulty. "I will not force you to work with me, but an important figure in the black market insists on meeting you."
Siah drew in a cold breath as he unfolded the note his eyes widening instantly.
---
Gourmand City – Eidolon Pantheon
The cathedral loomed above the city like a mountain of stone. Flying buttresses jutted like skeletal arms, pinnacles bristled against the sky, and spires lanced upward until they seemed to pierce the clouds. Below, the streets looked small, cowering under its shadow.
Sir Gael's gauntlet pressed against Theal's shoulder. "Inside waits the High Marshal Zeal Inertia to preside over your Bestowment. I cannot follow. Remember—whatever you do, do not meet his eyes."
Theal dipped his head in solemn thanks.
A curt nod, a faint tightening of Sir Gael's jaw. "Go. An important figure shouldn't be kept waiting."
Theal's chest swelled with a storm of nerves and resolve as he stepped into the cathedral's vast hall.
Arches soared overhead, ribbed like the bones of some giant beast, their gilded edges glowing with sunlight that spilled in streaks of molten gold. At the far wall, a massive rose window erupted in a sunburst of turquoise, green, and yellow, light scattering across the marble floor like shards of a broken rainbow. Amber and gold hues bled through tall lancet windows, painting the nave in jeweled fire.
The nave breathed with silence. Polished pews stood in strict rows. Blossoms of pink, yellow, and violet clustered at the aisles, their fragrance an unexpected softness amid the grandeur.
And there—kneeling at the altar—stood the High Marshal.
Theal froze. His breath snagged in his throat. The man rose slowly, turning, and Theal's eyes dropped at once to the floor.
Snow-white hair spilled past the High Marshal's shoulders, catching the light with a faint silver sheen. Pale eyes, piercing even when avoided, carried the weight of something unearthly. His uniform was sharp black, pressed like iron, high-collared and studded with metallic buttons. The long cross-shaped blade in his hip gleamed, its hilt crowned with gemstones that caught the sunlight like captive stars.
Theal's stomach tightened. His palms dampened against his sides."
The High Marshal's voice, low and measured, rolled across the hall. "Nothing in you speaks of someone capable of besting Knight Lieutenant Dante."
Theal swallowed, tongue sticking to his teeth. "The story is embellished i soiled the sacred duel."
"In the future do you count yourself the finest swordsman in Gourmand?"
Theal's head dipped lower. "I would not dare. Knight Commander Ayton Turner's legend alone would silence that dream."
The High Marshal's pale gaze lingered, unreadable. "If you want to win don't waste time being honest or kind."
Behind him, the great doors of the cathedral groaned closing. The sound reverberated like the creak of a tomb. Cold prickled Theal's skin, his hair rising with the chill.
Theal blinked awake, disoriented, body stiff against the altar stone.
"What—why am I laying down?" His voice
cracked.
The High Marshal's shadow loomed above him, the faintest curl of a smile on his lips.
Theal's lungs seized. Cold sweat trickled down his neck. He tried to rise, but the High Marshal's hand pressed him down with effortless strength, as though pinning a child.
"You are but young yet. Opportunity Slips through eager hands. You are a special case the Eidolon Spirit does not trust your tainted blood, But the Pantheon has decided to gift you a Code Red Totem The Slates of Schism."
The High Marshal rolled up his sleeves and filled a large container with muddy water. "The Slates of Schism come from a Stillness that received a bestowment from an evil spirt. The Spirit's name and origin is unknown its only encouter on Dyson seems to be the unfortunate who's consciousness left us with this Code Red Totem. The Stillness ability that was bestowed on him is Fracture. The one who bore the eyes was a Status seven hence they formed a Code Red Totem when his consciousness shattered."
Theal tilted his head, listening intently.
The High Marshal reached below the altar carrying a silk cloth that covered two eyeballs tossing them inside the muddy water. " When it comes to special cases like you when the Eidolon Spirit refuses to bestow you with Stillness. The Pantheon will use implant Totems to bestow you with Stillness and awaken your Hue, But your Stillness potential will be limited to the Status of the Implated Totem either. In your Case The Slates of Schism are Status Seven."
The High Marshal lit a candle slightly tilting it dripping the wax on the Alter as he drew a crescent moon and seven stars surrounding it. "Totem implants provide the same trinity Combat System as an normal bestowment, but it's already fixed its mystery depends solely on the advancement of your Hue and Consciousness through the Statuses."
The High Marshal's tone shifted, weary but deliberate. "Unfortunately unlike a bestowed of the Eidolon Spirit you won't get any assistance breakthrough so you will have to rely on yourself the chances of survival will be drastically low, and we hope the evil Spirit who bestowed the owner of the Slates of Schism with Stillness avails itself offering you assistance in exchange for Sacrifices you must immediately report it to the Pantheon."
The words seemed to drag something cold down Theal's spine.
The High Marshal folded the silk cloth putting it over Theals eyes. "The Slates of Schism's Default Technique is called Compression Fracture. With your gaze, you may focus pressure on a target until it collapses under immense pressure depending on the duration. The Gambit technique is Called Tensile Fracture. You anchor opposing points with your sight — the pulling force of the opposing points will pull your target to the designated points at the same time."
Theal's breath hitched. His heart thundered. Words failed him. He lay frozen under the High Marshal's gaze."The advantage of using Totem Implants is that despite the Complex Plane's seal restricting your low Status. With Totem Implants you can access potions of the Fracture's Complex Plane, and as you rise in Status it will increase giving you more access to manifest the Stillness in the physical plane."
The High Marshal murmured in prayer his light whispers indiscernible he ended with a light cough. "Now—let us begin with the surgical procedure. The Slates of Schism are eager for a host."