The silence within the Royal Library was no longer a sanctuary; it had transformed into a predatory thing, a cold presence that seemed to lick at the edges of my sanity. I sat huddled in the deepest corner of the Forbidden Archives, the flickering mana-lamp casting long, dancing shadows that looked like ghostly fingers reaching for the scrolls. My mind, usually a fortress of cold logic, was beginning to fray. The more I learned, the more I realized I wasn't just a player in a game—I was an ant crawling across a battlefield of gods.
The Sculptor of the Infinite (Rank 4)
I turned the vellum pages of the "Zenith Codex," my fingers trembling so violently that the parchment rattled. My eyes locked onto the entry for Rank 4: Malice, the Sculptor of War.
The description wasn't just text; it was a warning. She was a woman who had mastered the Primal Earth Element to a degree that defied the laws of nature. Malice did not merely move rocks; she breathed a twisted, artificial life into the very crust of the planet. It was recorded that during the "Great Siege of Oakhaven," she stood alone against an invading force of three million. With a single, rhythmic stomp of her foot, the ground didn't just shake—it birthed.
Millions of clay soldiers, taller than men and eyes glowing with a sickly yellow light, rose from the dirt in perfect formation. An army that required no sleep, felt no fear, and possessed no soul. Within an hour, she had filled an entire valley with an unstoppable, immortal legion. She could reshape mountain ranges into colossal stone guardians or turn a thriving capital into a desert tomb with a flick of her wrist. To face her was to face the very planet's wrath, molded into the shape of a woman.
The Architect of Echoes (Rank 3)
My throat was bone-dry. I felt a cold sweat soaking through Kenji's silk tunic. I forced myself to turn the page to Rank 3: The Chronos Architect.
This man was a phantom, a living myth who graced the mortal realm only once every five hundred years. He was the "Guardian of the State." His power was not the crude manipulation of time—he did not age people or turn them into dust—instead, he held absolute dominion over the "physical echo" of all non-living matter.
The text spoke of the "Restoration of Valoria," a city that had been reduced to smoldering rubble for five decades. The Architect walked through the ruins, and as he moved, the city "remembered" itself. Bricks flew from the dust, shattered glass reformed in window frames, and magic particles that had long since dissipated were yanked back into existence. He can freeze a fireball in mid-air, rendering its heat inert. He can halt the vibration of atoms to stop a falling castle. He is the man who treats reality as a canvas he can erase and repaint at his whim. He doesn't bring back the dead, but he ensures that the world they lived in remains exactly as he desires.
The Divine Void: Rank 1 & 2
I reached the final section of the codex. My heart was drumming against my ribs like a trapped bird. I expected names. I expected terrifying portraits. Instead, I found a void.
The pages for Rank 2 and Rank 1 were not just empty; they were haunting. They glowed with a faint, violet luminescence that seemed to pull at my very soul. There were no ink marks, no sketches, no history. Only a single, chilling inscription at the bottom of the blank expanse:
"The First and the Second... they are not of the world, though the world exists by their grace. They are the Sovereigns of the Zenith, the Silent Deities. To seek their names is to invite the erasure of your own existence. They do not fight; they simply Decide. They are the balance. They are the end."
"What kind of madness is this?" I hissed, slamming the book shut. The sound echoed through the hollow library like a gunshot. "Gods? This isn't magic... this is something else entirely."
I realized then that these seven warriors were not just "strong." They were a cosmic system. They appeared once every century, fought alongside the summoned Heroes, and then vanished like smoke. They were the true masters, and I was a parasite wearing the skin of their youngest student, Kenji.
The Internal Coup
"Master? You have been inside for four hours. Lord Kiran is requesting your presence for the Royal Banquet," a maid's voice called from the other side of the heavy oak doors.
In that moment of vulnerability, Kenji's soul—which had been suppressed by the sheer terror of what we were reading—found a crack in my defenses. He didn't just scream this time; he attacked.
"GIVE IT BACK! YOU COLD, CALCULATING THIEF! I WILL NOT LET A SHADOW WEAR MY GLORY!"
Suddenly, my right hand developed a life of its own. I watched in paralyzed horror as my own fingers curled into a rigid claw. My arm rose, fighting against my will with the strength of a hero's mana. My fingers reached for my throat. Kenji was trying to strangle me using his own muscles.
My vision began to darken as my own fingernails dug into the soft tissue of my neck. I was fighting myself—a literal struggle between my soul and the body's original owner. I was seconds away from crushing my own windpipe when—THUD.
The maid, sensing something was wrong, pushed the door open. "Master? Are you quite—"
The moment the seal of the room was broken and the air from the hallway rushed in, the mental pressure snapped. Kenji's soul retreated, fearful of being exposed in front of a witness. My hand fell limp. I stood there, gasping for air, clutching the edge of the table as cold sweat dripped from my chin.
"I... I am coming," I managed to rasp, my voice a broken shell of its former self.
I left the library with a mind fractured by forbidden knowledge. I was being summoned to a banquet—a stage where I would have to sit across from the King, the General, and the three girls who had known the real Kenji for years.
I was an observer who had stolen a god's seat. And as the Rank 3 Architect could tell me, some things are better left in the past.