Rufus stood before the nine doors.
He had already made his choice long ago.
Yet he didn't enter immediately.
Instead, he drifted there in silence, his glow steady but quieter than usual.
His thoughts returned to Richard.
"That kid…" he muttered softly.
The blue force surrounding Richard's soul replayed in his mind.
No artifact he had ever seen could protect that much memory inside Vismṛ.
Not even his own.
Rufus narrowed his gaze slightly.
He didn't act like someone from a powerful clan…
But the protection around him?
That was not normal.
Not even in higher realms.
"Human door," Rufus whispered thoughtfully. "Definitely human."
He glanced toward the Human Door.
"No one from a normal human realm should possess that kind of backing."
His mind drifted further.
God realm? Unlikely.
Immortal realm? Possible… but still strange.
He had lived long enough to know one thing—
The universe was vast.
Too vast.
Even his so-called "old hag" mentor hadn't told him everything.
Rufus let out a dry sigh.
"Maybe some mysteries are better left unknown."
After all, overthinking in the Cycle was pointless.
His gaze settled firmly on the Human Door.
He lifted a tiny fragment of his consciousness and gently left it near the edge of the door — a subtle mark, almost undetectable.
Insurance.
Just in case.
Then, in a low voice that carried quiet sincerity, he said,
"See you soon, Richard."
The Human Door trembled slightly.
It opened with a soft pulse of pale green light.
Without hesitation, Rufus drifted forward.
And in the next instant—
He vanished.
...The sky above the mountain estate was warm and softly radiant, painted in pale gold and faint pink hues. The air carried the scent of trimmed grass and distant blossoms.
At the center of the vast green and rose-tinted mountains stood a grand palace built from ivory stone. Tall pillars carved with flowing patterns supported its balconies. Vines curled naturally along parts of the structure, giving it life rather than rigid perfection.
Below, a wide English-style garden stretched outward — symmetrical hedges, gravel paths, marble fountains gently spilling water. It was elegant, but not modern. Medieval craftsmanship with aristocratic taste.
Before the palace gates, nearly a hundred armored men stood in disciplined formation.
Not ceremonial.
Waiting.
Inside the palace, tension replaced elegance.
In the grand birthing chamber, thick velvet curtains were drawn halfway to soften the light. Candles burned steadily in iron holders. Bowls of warm water and folded linen cloths rested on carved wooden tables.
The air smelled of herbs — lavender, rosemary, and crushed mint — used to calm the mother and purify the room.
On a wide carved bed, propped upright by embroidered cushions, lay a young woman in her twenties.
Her light blue hair clung slightly to her temples with sweat. Her breathing was uneven — controlled but strained. Her pale blue eyes shimmered with tears, not from weakness, but from the intensity of labor.
She had been in labor for hours.
Her contractions had started as dull pressure in her lower back and abdomen, spaced apart. Gradually, they became stronger, closer together. Each wave tightening her stomach like a drawn bowstring.
Now they were intense.
Deep.
Demanding.
A middle-aged midwife stood beside the bed — experienced, steady-handed. Her sleeves were rolled, and her expression calm but focused. Another younger assistant knelt near the foot of the bed, ready with fresh cloth.
"Breathe slowly, my lady," the midwife instructed gently. "In through the nose… steady… and release."
The young woman gripped the sheets tightly as another contraction came.
Her jaw clenched.
A low sound escaped her throat — not a scream, but a strained exhale.
Her body arched slightly as pressure built.
The midwife checked carefully.
"Good," she said reassuringly. "The child is crowning. One more strong push."
The woman's eyes watered further. She shook her head faintly, exhausted.
"I… I can't…" she whispered weakly.
"You can," the midwife replied firmly but kindly. "Your body knows what to do."
At the side of the bed stood a tall man — elegant but visibly anxious. His usually composed expression was cracked by worry.
He had remained silent the entire time.
Watching.
Helpless.
When another contraction struck, the woman cried out softly and pushed with everything she had left.
A tense silence filled the room.
Then—
A sudden shift.
The weight lifted.
And—
"Waaah—! Waaah—!"
The sharp cry of a newborn pierced the chamber.
The sound was raw. Alive. Powerful.
The midwife carefully lifted the baby, clearing the airway gently, checking breathing. The infant's skin was slightly red from birth, tiny fists clenched instinctively.
"A healthy boy," the midwife announced with relief.
The assistant quickly wrapped the baby in warm linen cloth.
Tears rolled freely from the young mother's eyes now — not from pain, but from overwhelming release.
The man exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He stepped forward slowly.
Carefully.
He reached for his wife's trembling hand and kissed her knuckles.
"Are you alright, my love?" he asked softly.
His voice was no longer noble or commanding.
Just a husband.
She smiled faintly, exhausted.
"I am… now," she whispered.
Her hair stuck to her cheeks. Her breathing was still heavy, her body weak from blood loss and strain — but stable.
The midwife placed the child gently in her arms.
The baby's crying intensified for a moment — strong lungs, demanding presence.
The mother laughed softly through tears.
"Hush… hush…" she murmured instinctively.
The baby's tiny fingers moved.
And for a brief, strange moment—
The infant's eyes opened.
Clear.
Aware.
Not like a normal newborn.
Just for a second.
Then they closed again.