Just as he reached the peak of the mountain, a massive grey rock towered before him giving rough, ancient, and a strange aura, as if a titan itself slumbered within the mountain.
Whatever a titan was.
Atop that colossal stone sat a lone figure, one knee drawn to his chest, his arm resting lazily upon it, the other leg stretched forward. His posture alone carried weight like a being whose mystery should never be touched, one that transcended dreams, emotions, and even reality itself. It was as if something not of this world had descended to rest here.
The figure wore a long, blackish-grey mask, covered in intricate vein-like patterns. His eyes glowed a deep ember, giving off both mystery and dominance. A single horn curved upward from the mask's upper left edge, and the mask concealed his entire face perfectly.
—The [Saint of Dusk], leader of the [Servants of Will].
For a moment, Charlie felt he should stop doubting the man. But he was Charlie—the youngest ever to receive a Soul Sword in the Forge Clan. Curiosity was in his blood. He couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop until he uncovered the leader's true identity.
Just because of that growing, unstoppable curiosity.
'Hell yeah… so, President—you can be in two places at once, huh? There's no way someone else could do this.'
He glanced around.
There were six others present, excluding himself and the leader. That made eight in total—the eight [Saints] of Will. Though "saint" was the word which really didn't suit for the group as in what sense others or he look like a saint.
'Well, whatever.'
Beside the leader stood a woman—quiet, unreadable, her presence heavier and more intimidating than even the leader's. That could only be the [Saint of Dawn].
'The co-leader is a lady?' Charlie thought, slightly surprised.
Every member wore a similar mask—same design, same color—yet each somehow felt distinct, unique, as if reflecting the wearer's soul.
Then, the leader's voice broke the silence—calm yet commanding, his tone fitting for one in his place.
"Welcome, Saint of Passion."
His title given by the group was [Saint of Passion] yet it quiet matched his personality he was really dedicated about his passion—which he hadn't found yet perhaps he did.
*
Ibaan spoke in a disguised tone, careful not to reveal his true voice—he couldn't let [Saint of Passion] recognize him.
He was an expert un disguising his voice even back in his world, like becoming an whole other person yet was the same.
Then, he summoned several gloves, each of a different color. He had weaved them earlier using his Concept of Creation, knowing full well that identical masks could cause confusion—or worse, chaos.
To prevent that, these gloves would serve as identifiers.
"These gloves will be your identity," he declared, his tone steady. "Do not lose them. Take care of them."
He placed two aside—a red pair for himself and a white one for Selpe—then tossed the white gloves and others toward her.
"Take the white ones for yourself," he said, "and distribute the rest."
Selpe nodded and walked toward them while maintaining her aura and concealed identity
And then straightened his power and ordered "Say your title along with the colour of your gloves, once you get it."
As the members took their gloves one by one, each spoke aloud—clear, firm, and echoing through the silent peak.
"Saint of Love, pink."
A woman stepped forward, slipping on her gloves.
"Saint of Truth, blue."
A calm male voice followed.
"Saint of Solitude, green."
A soft, shaky tone came next—nervous, but steadying with each word.
"Saint of Dreams, purple."
A young woman with a quiet smile stepped to the side, adjusting her gloves.
"Saint of Compassion, yellow."
A young man came next, his aura calm and bright.
And finally—
"Saint of Passion, orange."
The last young man—Charlie—spoke, sliding on his gloves with a small grin before joining the others.
Ibaan clapped his hands once, sharp and steady. The faint sound echoed across the mountain.
Then, Selpe stepped forward. Her expression was composed and her voice—cold yet controlled. She had already altered her spiritual energy before coming here, just as she had discussed with Ibaan. It was enough to mask her presence, to make sure no one recognized her true identity.
The energy she used wasn't ordinary Spiritual Energy—it was what Ibaan once called Chikara, the fundamental essence of everything in existence.
And the strange part?
The author of the original book never mentioned Chikara. Yet it clearly existed in this world. Without it, none of the universe system—or to be more specific, anything could function. People here just gave it a different name—Spiritual Energy.
Ibaan, however, wondered—had anyone else discovered the connection between his world and this one through the Astral World?
Though, honestly, he had never seen or experienced the Astral himself. Still, his curiosity was growing—just like Charlie's.
Selpe raised her hand and spoke, her tone unwavering:
"Slaughtering the Knuckles shall be our first step—our first mission. The easier the enemy, the less energy we'll waste and the more we'll preserve for the other two. We shall rage. We shall find courage. We shall fight. We shall become what no one ever did—or ever will—without us."
Her eyes flickered with resolve as she continued, "The Knuckles' main base lies in the Mansion of Gilniri. We shall proceed. We shall rage. We shall find courage and we shall fight… We shall obey."
The gang members didn't usually live together. They were scattered all across the city, handling their own missions. But this was October—the one month every gang stayed within their mansions, collecting resources and planning for the year ahead.
That was both an advantage and a danger.
Advantage: It meant most of the gang was gathered in one place—perfect for a single, clean strike.
Disadvantage: The same reason—it would be crawling with powerful members, making the fight much harder.
But Ibaan wasn't someone who came unprepared.
No intelligent—and especially no ancient—being ever did.
He remembered his old saying:
"Never be unprepared."
Before coming here, he had bought Nitrox Gas Lid, a forbidden substance capable of paralyzing anyone below Master Branch instantly. He'd threatened the shopkeeper into silence, forcing him to sell it without questions—no names, no reason, no trace.
Everyone raised their voices together, chanting in unity:
"We shall obey."
Ibaan stepped forward, landing on the ground with a soft thud. His stride was steady, fearless—like a true leader of a forbidden, dangerous gang.
The others followed, forming a curved line beside him, shadows blending into the mist of Shankra Mountain.