"What's Crow doing?"
Amber's voice pulled my attention before I even turned my head.
We both looked out toward the open field of grass beyond the relief center—past the trucks, the stacks of supplies, and the line of evacuees being checked in—toward Crow.
He was seated in a lotus position like he belonged there.
Not the "I'm stretching" lotus.
Not the "I'm trying to look calm" lotus.
The real kind.
The kind you do when you're either praying… or trying to keep something from breaking.
His clothes were damp with sweat. His shoulders still held that faint tremble you get after pushing yourself past what's reasonable. He'd trained until he was practically empty—like he'd wrung every last drop of astral energy out of himself—then sat down like stillness was the next technique.
It didn't look safe.
It looked stubborn.
"Said he's trying out some new method he saw in the Diaries," I replied, already guiding Amber away. "Just leave him alone. We got enough work already, and he did his part by getting us the supplies."
Amber let me steer her, but her eyes kept drifting back like the field was a cliff and Crow was sitting too close to the edge.
"Should he just be using something like that?" she asked. "I mean… Mrs. Crystal's video said it's dangerous."
Concern sat on her face like she wasn't used to watching people gamble with themselves on purpose.
I didn't blame her.
But I also didn't have patience for it today.
"He taught you his silent casting, right?" I asked.
Amber nodded fast. "Yeah."
"Well it wasn't his to begin with," I said. "That's Odin's technique."
Her brows rose. She looked like she wanted to ask a dozen questions at once.
"Technically," I continued, "the only one he doesn't teach anything he stole from Odin… is Thomas."
Amber blinked. "Wait—"
"Thomas is an idiot," I said flatly. "Explaining anything to him is pointless."
We pushed into the cafeteria area—more like a converted mess hall at this point. Folding tables. Big pots. Bottled water. Dry food. A logistics lane that never stopped moving.
Thomas and his group were already there, directing a new batch of people that Tasey and his men had dropped off.
You could always tell when the new group came in because the room would change.
The sound would shift. The air would feel heavier.
That quiet panic—like everyone was still trying to decide whether they were safe enough to breathe.
Thomas stepped into it anyway like he was built to absorb mess.
He wasn't graceful about it.
But he did it.
"He just steals the spells he can use," I said to Amber, lowering my voice as we passed the food line, "and the technique he made his own."
Amber's gaze flicked toward Thomas as he raised both hands to calm someone down—palms open, fingers spread.
I caught the movement and immediately added—
"If you fight Thomas… never let him open his palms at you."
Amber snapped back to me. "Why?"
"He'll throw any spell at you like he's a neutral type," I said. "Any spell. Any angle. Like he doesn't even care what his affinity says he should be able to do."
Amber looked disturbed.
Good.
Better disturbed now than dead later.
We paused at the end of the line where the student logistics group handed out food and water. Amber took hers, but she barely looked at it.
Her mind was still outside.
"So what is he working on now?" she asked again.
"Who knows," I said. "It's pretty much a pointless idea to try and figure out where his head is."
Amber didn't like that answer. I could see it in her jaw.
So I gave her something that wasn't an answer—something closer to the truth.
"He took you to Meg's bar," I said, watching her reaction. "So he trusts you enough for you to ask for yourself."
Amber's cheeks warmed, annoyed and embarrassed at the same time. Like she wanted to deny it but didn't have a clean way to.
Across the room, Thomas was trying to coddle a crying child.
He was doing that thing where he crouched too stiff, said the wrong soothing words, then just… offered the kid his own blanket like that somehow fixed the universe.
The kid took it anyway.
A smile tugged at my face before I could stop it.
I hated that I found it funny.
Or maybe I hated that it was still possible to find anything funny.
I stepped in to help—because that's what we were doing here.
Helping.
Keeping people alive.
Keeping kids from shaking apart.
And because Crow sitting alone in that field wasn't a problem I could solve by staring at him.
Not unless I wanted to start breaking too.
The only way you'll maintain your clarity is by creating a motif of your own.
Azazel's words returned the moment I closed my eyes.
Not like a memory.
Like a rule.
A warning stamped into me during the deal—like he wasn't speaking to "me" so much as speaking to the thing I might become if I kept walking this path without an anchor.
Motif.
I rolled the word around in my mind, trying to make it practical.
A motif of your own.
A repeating symbol.
A pattern you return to.
A personal shape you choose… so the Astral Sea doesn't choose one for you.
I read Odin's Diaries until the pages blurred.
I reread the same entries until they felt like they were mocking me.
Methods. Notes. Sketches of techniques that assumed the reader already had the instincts to survive them.
Odin wrote like someone who knew he wouldn't have the time to explain everything.
Like someone leaving a weapon behind, not a lesson.
But nothing in the Diaries helped with this.
This crack in my clarity.
This sense that my name was starting to weigh more than my body.
So I went sideways.
Back to the other book.
Forgotten Suns.
A book that used to be treated like a myth collector's trash.
Now it sat beside the Diaries in value—because it didn't matter if it was "true."
It mattered that it was consistent.
It mattered that it offered examples.
Stories of Gods.
Stories of names.
Stories of races and lineages that sounded like fantasy until you realized how many explorers wore those same names like masks.
I flipped through sections like I was searching for a mirror.
Odin's name—pages dedicated to the rise and fall of the Aesir.
Olympus.
Names pulled from the ancient world and nailed onto modern bodies.
The book's origins were heavily debated.
No author record.
No lineage.
No trace.
As if it just fell to Earth.
Co-written by two names that weren't names.
Lovel and Cueljuris.
Pen names.
Of course.
But whoever they were… they weren't stupid.
They didn't write like someone trying to impress.
They wrote like someone trying to leave breadcrumbs before a storm erased the road.
I exhaled.
"What if the explorers went mad because they took the names of actual beings," I whispered. "What if it's all a naming game… and what risk you'll take to live up to it."
The thought didn't feel like a theory.
It felt like my mind had finally touched the edge of the hidden structure behind everything.
Like the Astral Sea had been laughing at us the whole time.
I thought about the people closest to me.
My mom and Rick—Artemis and Huginn.
Even Aunt Crystal had a codename she used inside explorer circles, like the name she was born with didn't fully cover her anymore.
Then there was mine.
"Prince of Death," I said out loud.
The title tasted wrong in my mouth.
Too dramatic.
Too clean.
Too convenient.
Was it Azazel who gave me that nickname?
Was it the Society?
Or was it really just a nickname people chose because it made their fear easier to manage?
I slowed my breathing.
I tried to sink deeper.
But when I focused inward—when I looked at the place my energy should've sat smooth and whole—I felt it.
Hairline cracks.
Spidering.
Quiet damage.
Not the kind you feel in your muscles.
The kind you feel in your identity.
Like something inside me was breaking because it wanted to become a new definition.
"Prince of Death," I repeated, slower this time.
And for the first time, I couldn't tell if I was asking a question…
…or if I was answering one.
Because if names were real—
If names were contracts—
Then my motif wasn't just a symbol.
It was the only way to stay myself before the Sea finished writing me into something else.
"To think I would have to come out personally. I thought my Vicisius were more than capable… but I can't blame them when we're dealing with outsiders."
I looked back at my men and women—eight who'd been part of my inner circle since I first received my direct blessing from the Lord of Shadows.
I didn't name them individually.
Not here.
Not in front of outsiders.
They carried my middle name the way a blade carries an edge.
The way a unit carries a war-cry.
Vicarius.
That's how I referred to my group.
Not as eight.
As one.
"Vicarius."
Eight sets of eyes locked on me at once.
Eight answers without a word.
Crowning me the Princeps Vicarius Umbraru of MutaRex, I wore the secondary crown as I stared down the invaders who had stolen a fragment of the Key to our world.
Their mortal-sized underlings were many—animal-featured fighters with disciplined spacing, trained to move like teeth.
But only one presence here truly mattered.
The tiger.
Three eyes.
Wings that covered the mountain top like a storm folded into flesh.
Tails dancing behind him like he was amused by the idea of resistance.
Demi-god class.
His pressure made the air feel smaller.
And the other demi-god?
That was me.
Only I couldn't go further.
Not without devouring too much.
Not without cracking my own planet's spine for one more step.
Two years of evolving had dragged me to a plateau—because the next evolution wasn't growth.
It was consumption.
And I refused to win by eating my own home.
The tiger spoke like he was offering a bargain instead of a leash.
"Do you submit?" he asked. "My father will see the value in the talent you have. Your entire group could be considered the crown jewel of this world. Sadly you'll never compare with us who are backed by a God King of the Asura path."
He said it like backing didn't mean ownership.
"If you submit," he continued, "then we can get you the best deal when it comes to finding a divine office for you to take over. If not… we can wait till my Father fully steps into the B rank and craft a new office for someone like you."
A divine office.
A pretty prison.
"A divine office?" I said, finding his comment utterly stupid. "Why would I sacrifice my world for a leash?"
I waved my hand, stopping my horned mortals from clashing with his beasts too early. If we rushed, we died fast. If we fought smart, we died slower—long enough to make it cost.
The tiger's three eyes narrowed.
"Yes," he said, voice smooth with condescension. "A divine office. I was under the assumption that you would know such basic knowledge. With a title like Princeps Vicarius Umbraru—especially as the head. Your patron would explain the basics. But I'll do it for him out of the kindness—"
I launched a spear of darkness mid-sentence.
No negotiation.
No patience.
Three of his underlings intercepted it. Two broke. The third skidded back hard enough to carve stone.
My fighting spirit rose.
Finally.
Something worth sinking my teeth into.
And because I was already at my limit.
I had reached my plateau unless I wanted to destroy my world by overeating.
The tiger was demi-god class.
And the other demi-god in this clash?
Me.
Only I couldn't go further without breaking what I was supposed to protect.
"Do not disrespect my people's God," I said, shadow thickening around my arms like a second skin. "You offer the real shackles."
His tails snapped once. Irritation leaking.
"He hasn't demanded anything of us," I continued. "He's grazed us with opportunity. The same opportunity you just tried to sell—collecting on at our peak."
I stepped forward.
"If you thought this was the final step then you're mistaken."
I bared my teeth.
"I'll die a loyal Goblinkin then sell out my world like that artificial Goblin king."
Both sides surged.
Underlings collided—my side outnumbered, overpowered—
—but if it was really so easy to evolve to this point…
…then we would've stayed goblins like the rest.
And when the tiger finally moved—when demi-god pressure pressed down like the mountain itself wanted to kneel—
I forced him off the planet.
Not because I feared him.
Because I refused to let his strength turn my world into collateral.
If we were going to fight…
…it would be above it.
"My Lord, are you sure you won't aid them?"
Old Bones knelt at my side, skeletal hands clicking softly as he offered his report like a confession.
The pool of water before us shimmered—Chang'e's connection to moons turning it into a window.
MutaRex burned inside it.
A world-class war.
Two demi-god presences had drawn attention from the fringes of the Sea, but only one of them belonged to outsiders now.
The tiger brat.
The other demi-god was mine—my former goblin, now evolved, wearing the secondary crown and leading from the front with stubborn loyalty.
Below them, the supporting slaughter unfolded.
Sixteen ninth-rank talents tearing through goblin formations like trained knives.
And the only reason the planet didn't crack under the weight of it all…
…was because my protection covered the world like a lid.
Chang'e watched with the calm expression of someone used to cosmic consequences. She ate fruit slowly, like each bite was a verdict.
"My Lord," Old Bones repeated, smaller. "Are you sure?"
I poured myself another cup of wine.
Chang'e answered first, amused.
"No," she said. "That's the Reaper's job."
Old Bones froze at the word Reaper, like even the sound carried authority.
Chang'e chuckled.
"The envoys will be sending a notice," she said. "To appear at the boy's home. Once the Court takes action… it's out of our hands."
She looked at me sideways.
"Even if you wanted to save the tiger brat, you couldn't."
I didn't respond.
Because she wasn't wrong.
"So what do you think?" Chang'e asked, voice light. "Will you send any of your angels after that kid?"
"No," I said calmly. "The Court will handle the notice. The Reapers will handle the collection."
Chang'e's smile sharpened.
"Him and his pantheon in C rank got caught red-handed breaking The Ones' rules," she said, as if she was discussing a scandal at a banquet. "So not my fault I reported them."
"A emperor hiding in the C rank isn't anything new," I replied, eyes still on the pool. "But risking his emperor-rank talented son?"
I shook my head slightly.
"Big misstep."
Chang'e hummed, pleased.
"His Gaia must really hate him," I continued, "if she didn't warn him of the rules. Just like the True Daughter is fed up with the old guard on her planet—sacrificing the next generation is something even the Gaias frown upon when the potential is this high."
In the pool, my prince forced the tiger further out—pulling the fight away from the planet like loyalty was a physical force.
Two talents.
Both capable of reaching emperor one day.
One born into entitlement.
One forged by hunger and refusal.
I sipped my wine.
Old Bones remained kneeling, still waiting for permission that wasn't coming.
And somewhere far away from this pool—far away from MutaRex entirely—envoys were preparing a notice.
Because once the Court moved…
…it didn't matter who thought they were untouchable.
The Sea had rules.
And the Sea loved collecting.
Author Note (From the Book of Fallen Suns — Angel of Life):
"Names aren't decorations. They're weight. They're contracts. And if you don't choose your own motif… something else will."