As Zerath stepped out of his room, the world before him unfolded with overwhelming grandeur. A long, endless hallway stretched out in both directions, its walls built from flawless white marble. Intricate carvings of winged beasts and celestial patterns ran along the surface, each line gleaming faintly under the glow of countless bright lamps that floated in mid-air without chains or stands.
Beneath his feet, a thick red carpet stretched the length of the corridor, its embroidery detailed with golden threads that shimmered as he walked. The fabric was so fine that each step felt soft and silent, as though he were treading on clouds. The entire place exuded majesty, the kind of wealth and authority that could only belong to the highest of rulers.
Zerath's eyes narrowed as he took in the sight. This looks like a palace… did Eryon teleport me inside a King's court? He took a single step forward, ready to explore, when a sudden voice cut through the stillness.
"Brother?!"
The tone was sharp, high-pitched, and trembling with shock.
Zerath halted mid-step. Slowly, with his usual calm composure, he turned his head toward the source of the voice.
A woman stood a few meters behind him, frozen in place. Her wide amber eyes stared at him as though she had seen a ghost. She wore a deep blue regal gown that hugged her frame before flaring out around her legs, embroidered with fine golden designs that matched the delicate crown upon her head. In her hands she carried a silver jug, water glimmering faintly at its rim.
Her beauty was breathtaking—striking, even unnatural. Her black hair cascaded freely like a waterfall, its silkiness catching the light. Her face was sharp and refined, a balance of elegance and nobility. In his past life, Zerath had known women whose beauty sparked wars, yet none could compare to this woman. She was the kind of beauty that could topple kingdoms.
But even she was not flawless. Her chest was modest, not ample enough to fit the ideals of some, though her figure more than made up for it. The subtle sway of her hips, the sculpted curve of her backside—it was the kind of allure that spoke of strength hidden beneath grace.
Zerath's expression did not change. He had seen beauty countless times before. He had taken wives, lovers, and companions in his past life, women who fought for his favor and bathed in his shadow. None were like her, but that only made it easier for him to remain detached.
His gaze narrowed, and the moment his eyes locked with hers, something within him shifted.
Without warning, a wave of killing intent surged out of him. It erupted like a tidal wave of blood, invisible yet suffocating, drenching the entire hallway in its dreadful weight. The air itself seemed to freeze, as though the presence of a demonic beast had suddenly been unleashed within the palace.
The effect was immediate.
The woman gasped, her breath catching in her throat as though invisible hands gripped her neck. Her knees buckled under the crushing weight of his aura, her crown tilting slightly as she staggered. The jug in her trembling hands slipped free, shattering on the marble floor as water spilled across the carpet.
Her voice came out broken, stammering. "Y-You are not… Kaelith… W-Who… are you…"
But she couldn't finish.
Zerath's plain, expressionless face tilted slightly as he took a step forward. With that single motion, his aura deepened, growing sharper, colder, heavier. It was as though death itself had taken physical form, pressing down on her fragile body.
Her amber eyes widened in terror before the pressure crushed her final thread of will. Her lips trembled, and then—with a faint hiccup—her consciousness slipped away. She collapsed onto the floor, her body falling limp, gown spreading across the carpet like spilled ink.
The hallway fell silent once more.
Zerath let out a quiet sigh. "I carried my killing intent from my past life…" he muttered, glancing at his own hands as though they bore unseen blood. "I need to suppress it. Otherwise… it will cause me trouble."
His eyes shifted back to the unconscious woman. She lay there, fragile and powerless beneath the weight of his presence, yet even now her beauty was undeniable. Zerath crouched slightly, his gaze sweeping over her figure.
"She is a beauty," he admitted under his breath. "But she called me brother." A faint crease appeared between his brows, though his tone carried no confusion—only mild annoyance.
He reached forward, his fingers brushing through her silken black hair. For a brief moment, his touch was almost gentle, like one examining a rare treasure. Then, without hesitation, he tightened his grip.
With a sigh, Zerath rose to his feet once more. The woman's body shifted as he began dragging her by her hair across the carpet, her gown whispering against the marble floor. His expression was calm, unbothered, as though this was nothing more than routine.
He turned back toward the direction of his room, pulling her limp form behind him.
The grand palace was silent again, but now the echo of his footsteps was joined by the dull scrape of her body across the ground.
Once inside the room, Zerath shut the door behind him with a quiet click. The heavy oak frame sealed the outside world away, muffling the distant echoes of the palace. He turned, expression as placid as an undisturbed lake, and with a single motion he flung the limp woman's body onto the bed. She landed softly against the silk sheets, her head tilting to one side, her crown sliding away and clattering faintly against the floor.
Zerath stood there for a moment, his gaze fixed upon her as if weighing her very existence. Then, with deliberate steps, he approached.
"I carried over my killing intent…" his voice was low, almost a murmur, yet it filled the quiet room. "So naturally, my powers must have followed as well."
He raised his right hand into the air, fingers spread slightly apart. Concentration sharpened his features as he focused.
A sharp pulse of energy rippled through him. Suddenly, golden radiance burst from his body, flooding the chamber in warm, holy light. His nails elongated in an instant, curving into claw-like points, each one gleaming as though forged from sunlight itself.
Zerath examined them with unblinking eyes. "Hmm… I got my powers back," he said, his tone calm but edged with faint curiosity. He flexed his fingers, watching how the claws shimmered with brilliance. "But something is different." He inhaled slowly, his gaze turning slightly grim. "Why are they golden?"
In his previous life, those same claws had been jet black, veins bulging grotesquely across his skin whenever he summoned them. They had been feared as the very "hands of the devil," instruments of despair and destruction. But now, under Eryon's divine blessing, they no longer carried that demonic hue. Instead, they gleamed with a sanctified luster, like the talons of some angelic beast.
"It must be the divine authority Eryon granted me…" he murmured, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.
His eyes shifted back to the unconscious woman. She lay defenseless, her chest rising and falling in slow rhythm, her beauty unmarred by the faint frown that still lingered from fear before she collapsed.
"Time to test if this really works… or if these claws are nothing more than golden decoration."
Without hesitation, Zerath moved closer. His clawed hand slashed downward—not at her flesh, but at her gown. With a single swipe, the fabric shredded effortlessly, parting to reveal her pale, milky skin beneath. Only the modest coverings of a thin bra and violet silk panties remained, framing her form.
For a brief moment, his gaze lingered on her lower abdomen, cold and clinical rather than lustful. Then, with deliberate precision, he extended another claw and pricked the tip of his own finger.
A single drop of blood welled up—glowing gold like molten sunlight.
"Even my blood is golden," Zerath observed, his voice flat, almost disappointed. He let the glowing droplet roll down until it fell upon her navel, spreading warmth across her skin. "How ironic. Once I was a devil with black claws and blood like tar. Now…" He narrowed his eyes, "…I look more like an angel than a sinner."
Kneeling beside her, he dipped his claw into his own golden blood and began tracing strange, intricate symbols across her abdomen. Each line shimmered faintly as though alive, the air around them vibrating with a low hum. His movements were slow, ritualistic, as if inscribing some ancient seal that predated language itself.
Seconds turned into minutes, and when the final stroke was drawn, the completed symbol pulsed with life. Threads of golden light spread outward from it, seeping into her skin until it looked as though her very body had become a vessel for sacred fire.
Zerath straightened, his expression unchanged, and raised his clawed hand toward her.
"Soul Search."
His voice resonated with authority, and in that moment the room itself seemed to tremble. Golden light erupted from his body, expanding outward in a blinding burst. Behind him, a pair of radiant white wings unfurled—vast, feathered, divine. They stretched wide, brushing against the walls of the chamber, their glow turning shadows to dust.
The symbol on the woman's stomach flared in response, its lines igniting like molten gold. Light wrapped around her form, lifting her body gently from the bed. She hovered weightlessly in the air, her limbs relaxed, her head tilted back as though offering herself to the heavens.
Zerath closed his eyes, extending his awareness into the glowing connection. His consciousness sank into the depths of her soul, pushing past the barrier of flesh and memory. The world around him faded.
And slowly, piece by piece, her memories began to unfold before him.