Three days after Cain returned from Twilight Valley, rain fell on the underground city.
Not rain from the sky—the underground city had no sky, no rain. But water seeped through cracks in the stone, trickled down the walls, and pooled in the low places. The silver moss grew brighter when wet, illuminating the entire underground city like a deep blue aquarium.
Cain sat in his small room, the black sword—Deny—laid across his thighs.
Three days. He had barely slept. Not because he didn't want to, but because every time he closed his eyes, his mind filled with images of that blue tomb, that black stone coffin, those words carved in stone:
Better a mortal man than a false god.
And the letter.
Every time you use it, the curse will sink deeper into you. Use it too much, and you will become me—or become the very thing you were meant to kill.
He reached out and touched the faded divine mark on his left arm. It was the mark that would appear after killing a god—though he hadn't killed any god yet, the mark had appeared the night he left the tomb. Black lines spread from his shoulder to his elbow, like a withered vine crawling across his skin.
Hank said it was because he had touched Deny. Deny was forged from the bones of the God of Fear. It still carried traces of divine power. Touching it was touching a god.
The cost had begun the moment he picked it up.
Cain set the sword down, stood, and walked out of his room.
In the mess hall, Lyra was helping in the kitchen.
She stood at the water basin, wiping wooden bowls with a rag—slowly, carefully. Since coming to the underground city, she had changed greatly. No more tears. No more "why." No more waking in the night with screams. She just lived quietly, like a plant growing underground—no sun, no rain, but still growing.
Cain walked to her side, picked up a rag, and began wiping bowls beside her.
Lyra glanced at him. Neither spoke.
They wiped in silence for a long time.
Then Lyra spoke.
"You've changed a lot."
Cain didn't answer.
"That's not saying you've changed for the worse," Lyra said. "You've changed. You never used to offer to wash dishes."
"You never used to offer to talk to people," Cain said.
Lyra blinked. Then the corner of her mouth twitched slightly—the first time he had seen his sister smile. Not a happy smile. A bitter one, tinged with relief.
"We've both changed," she said.
"Yes."
"What would Mother think?" Lyra's voice suddenly dropped. "If she saw us now... what would she think?"
Cain stopped wiping.
He looked up at the skylight in the ceiling. The rain had stopped. Sunlight leaked through gaps in the clouds, passed through the glass, and cast a small patch of golden light on the floor beneath the skylight.
"She would think it's enough that we're alive," Cain said.
Lyra lowered her head and continued wiping bowls.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked.
Cain was silent for a moment.
"Yes."
"What was it?"
Cain reached into his pocket, pulled out the two silver coins, and placed them on the table in front of Lyra.
Lyra looked down at the two coins. Her eyes widened slightly.
"This is the one Father left?" She picked up the one on the right.
"Yes."
"And this one?"
"I found it from the place Father's map led me to."
Lyra held both coins in her palm, turning them over and over. The coins gleamed dully in the sunlight, their symbols like some ancient code.
"What do they mean?" she asked.
"They're my path," Cain said. "The path Father couldn't finish walking."
Lyra looked up at Cain.
"Will you finish it?"
Cain looked into his sister's eyes—brown, exactly the same color as their mother's.
"Yes," he said.
Lyra closed her palm over the coins, squeezed tight, then opened her hand and set them back on the table.
"Then go," she said. "But promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Come back alive."
Cain put the coins back in his pocket, reached out, and ruffled Lyra's hair.
"I promise."
Lyra didn't pull away. She kept her head down, letting her brother's hand rest on her hair for a few seconds.
Then she picked up her rag and continued wiping bowls.
Cain turned and left the mess hall.
On the training ground, Iris was shooting arrows.
Her movements were faster than before. The sound of arrows cutting through the air was sharper. The arrows on the target were denser. But Cain noticed—her arrows were no longer all clustered in the bullseye. Some hit the nine-ring, some the eight-ring. One had even hit the seven-ring.
"Your aim is slipping," Cain said from behind her.
Iris lowered her bow and turned.
"Because you weren't here," she said. Her tone was flat, as if stating something ordinary.
"I'm not here and you can't aim?"
"When you're not here, no one picks up my arrows for me."
Cain looked at her. Iris looked back. They stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Iris looked away first.
"What did you find in that dump of yours?" she asked.
Cain drew the black sword from his belt and held it out to Iris.
Iris looked down at the sword. In the sunlight—the underground city's sunlight, weak but warm, filtered through the skylights—the blade reflected nothing, like a frozen crack in the air.
"Good sword," she said. "What's it called?"
"Deny."
"Why that name?"
"Because it can turn gods into mortals."
Iris looked up. A glint of light passed through her emerald eyes.
"You're really going to do it?" she asked.
"Do what?"
"Kill gods."
Cain sheathed the sword and looked at Iris.
"Didn't you already know?"
Iris was silent for a few seconds.
"Knowing and accepting are two different things," she said. "I knew you were going to kill gods. But I don't accept that you'll die."
"I won't die."
"You promise?"
Cain looked at her. In the sunlight, Iris's hair gleamed with brown luster. The freckles on her face were more visible than usual. Her emerald eyes held an expression he had never seen before—not worry, not fear, but something more complex, deeper.
"I promise," he said.
Iris stared at him for a few seconds, then turned and picked up her bow again.
"Then train," she said. "I'll teach you archery. Before you kill gods, at least learn ranged combat."
She pulled an arrow from her quiver and held it out to Cain.
"Take it."
Cain took the arrow.
"Stand next to me."
Cain stood next to her.
"Look at the target."
Cain looked at the distant target.
"Draw."
Cain raised the bow—Iris's spare training bow, stiffer than the practice bow he usually used. He drew the string with all his strength, arm muscles tightening, veins bulging.
"Don't use brute force." Iris walked behind him and placed her hand on his right elbow. "A bow isn't drawn with force. Use your back. Your back is stronger than your arm."
Cain adjusted his stance.
"Release."
The arrow flew, wobbling crookedly, and buried itself in the edge of the target.
"Ugly," Iris said. "Again."
Cain took another arrow.
This shot was slightly better—at least it hit the target.
"Again."
Third arrow. Seven-ring.
"Again."
Fourth arrow. Eight-ring.
"Again."
Fifth arrow. Nine-ring.
Iris looked at the nine-ring arrow in the target. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly.
"Not completely hopeless."
Cain lowered the bow and looked at his hands. Two red lines were carved into his fingers where the string had bitten—burning with pain.
"Same time tomorrow," Iris said. "One hundred arrows a day. Don't eat until you finish."
Cain looked at her.
"This is payback for my thousand swings a day, isn't it?"
Iris laughed.
Not a twitch of the mouth. Not a bitter, relieved smile. A real laugh—from the heart, with a hint of mischief.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, it is."
It was the first time Cain had seen her laugh.
And the first time he thought that the light in the underground city wasn't actually that cold.
That night, Marcus called Cain to his room.
Something new had been added to the room—a new map. The map hung on the wall, covering it entirely. Twelve points were marked on the map. Beside each point was a name.
Zeus. Hera. Poseidon. Demeter. Athena. Apollo. Artemis. Ares. Aphrodite. Hermes. Hephaestus. Hades.
The Twelve Pillars.
Twelve names.
Twelve targets.
"You have the sword." Marcus stood before the map, his back to Cain. "And you have the map. Now you know what comes next."
"Training," Cain said. "Growing stronger. Then killing them one by one."
Marcus turned and looked at Cain.
"Do you know why you are the only one who can kill gods?"
"Because I have Godslayer blood."
"No," Marcus said. "Because the blood in your veins is your father's blood. And in your father's blood, there was something other Godslayers didn't have."
Cain frowned.
"He loved you." Marcus said. "He loved you, your mother, your sister. He wasn't a warrior, wasn't a hero—just an ordinary farmer. But his love made him stand up, face Zeus's lightning, and straighten his spine."
He walked to Cain and crouched down.
"Other Godslayers killed out of hatred. Your father taught me something—only love can keep a person human after killing gods."
He looked into Cain's eyes.
"You have hate in your heart. A lot of hate. But you also have love in your heart—love for your sister, love for Iris, love for your father's memory. Those loves are your anchors. They will keep you human even as you become a blade."
Cain was silent for a long time.
"I won't forget," he said.
Marcus stood and patted his shoulder.
"Go. Starting tomorrow, your training intensity doubles. Hank has already made you a new plan."
"What plan?"
"You'll find out."
Marcus walked to his table, picked up his water cup, and took a sip.
Cain turned to leave.
"Cain."
He stopped.
"The day your father died—what did you see?"
Cain stood there, his back to Marcus.
"I saw him swallowed by lightning," he said. "I saw him laugh."
"Why did he laugh?"
Cain turned and looked at Marcus.
"Because he knew I would finish the path he couldn't walk."
Marcus nodded.
"Then walk it."
Cain walked out of the room and closed the door.
In the tunnel, the cold light of the silver moss illuminated the stone walls. He touched the cord on his wrist—the rough hemp rope Lyra had woven—and walked toward the training ground.
Behind him, from Marcus's room, came a very soft sigh.
Not sadness. Not resignation.
Relief.
The next day, Cain began his new training.
Hank had given him a plan that seemed nearly impossible: three thousand sword swings a day, two hundred arrows, ten kilometers of running, one hundred rope climbs, plus strength and speed training.
Cain didn't complain.
He just did it.
One day. Two days. Three days. One month. Two months. Three months.
He grew taller. His shoulders broadened. His arms thickened. The scar on his left cheek faded to a thin white line. The divine mark on his left arm spread from his shoulder to his wrist.
He grew stronger.
Deny grew lighter in his hand, more natural. He could draw the sword, swing, and sheathe it in darkness without making a sound. He could hit moving targets from fifty paces with the archery Iris had taught him. He could run ten kilometers cross-country and still spar with Hank for half an hour.
But he also changed.
He began to dream. Every night, he dreamed the same dream—standing on the summit of Mount Skyreach, facing twelve enormous shadows, Deny in his hand. The shadows closed in. He swung. One shadow fell. But the others came closer. He swung again. Another fell. But the remaining shadows surrounded him.
Every time, he woke at that moment.
When he woke, the divine mark on his left arm burned—a reminder that the curse was deepening.
But Cain told no one.
On every sleepless night, he walked to the training ground, faced the wooden posts, and swung his sword until dawn.