Cyrus and Baron lay broken on the violet soil, their forbidden techniques having backfired into a terminal collapse of their meridians. As they gasped for air that felt like needles, Piet—using Vincy's hand—made a swift, hooking gesture in the air.
"Waste not, want not," Piet's voice echoed with a cold, mercenary glee.
The storage rings on the brothers' fingers—adorned with the crest of the Great River Clan—snapped off their hands as if pulled by an invisible magnet, flying straight into Vincy's pocket. Piet didn't stop there; his senses swept the clearing, plucking a high-grade Soul-Sunder Blade and several pouches of concentrated Spirit Stones from the cooling bodies.
"Piet, they're... they're dying," Vincy whispered, his conscience stinging.
"They were dead the moment they traded their life force for black fire," Piet retorted. "At least now their 'inheritance' will go toward someone who knows how to spend it. Now, move. The 'Glitch' is spreading."
As the duo moved to depart, Lady Seraphina emerged from the crystal grove, her silver-scaled armor catching the shifting starlight. She stepped over Cyrus's reaching, blood-stained hand as if it were a piece of refuse.
"Help... Seraphina... save us..." Baron wheezed, but the Lady of the Inner Court didn't even look down.
"Why should I?" she asked calmly, her gaze fixed entirely on Vincy. "They were tools of a dying era. Their failure is their own." She turned to Vincy, her eyes calculating. "I propose a cooperation. I have the Lunar Refraction Mirror, and you have the means to reach the Altar. Neither of us survives the exit ambush alone."
As they trekked toward the heart of the realm, Piet didn't just lead them on a direct path. Guided by his "Star-Sight," they veered into hidden grottos to harvest Moon-Scented Peonies and Gravity-Resistant Ore—treasures that would have taken a normal student weeks to find.
Eventually, they were met by a sprawling, geometric nightmare: The Labyrinth of Glass.
The walls weren't made of stone, but of solidified light. Every turn was a reflection of another turn, and the floor was a shifting mosaic of stars.
"Piet says we have to walk in a specific pattern," Vincy relayed to Seraphina. "Follow my footsteps exactly. If I step on a red star, don't touch it. Only the violet ones."
As they delved deeper into the maze, the "Glitch" intensified. The walls didn't just reflect their faces; they began to show images of a golden empire—towers that touched the sun and ships that sailed on rivers of light. The air grew cold, and spectral guards in star-scale armor—Echoes of Piet's fallen kingdom—began to step out into the hallway.
Vincy's body stood tall, his posture becoming regal and terrifying as Piet fully manifested his presence. As the spectral guards approached, Piet-Vincy spoke a language of grinding glass and singing birds.
"By the Blood of the First Star, I command the gates to open. I am the Prince of the Unwritten Era!"
The Echoes froze and bowed, their spectral forms dissolving into a fine, glittering mist. The maze began to pull apart, the glass walls folding into themselves like a deck of cards to reveal the Star-Scripture Altar at the summit.
While Vincy and Seraphina stood before the ancient Altar, the world outside the portal was anything but peaceful. The Shadow-Stalkers of the Solis Empire had not breached the realm. Instead, they had spent the hours meticulously fortifying the exit.
"They've been in there too long," one assassin hissed, checking the tension on a Great-Void Crossbow. "Even if the boy survives the spatial shifts, he'll be exhausted. We set the Triple-Layer Soul-Net fifty yards from the gate. The moment he steps out, he won't even be able to blink."
"And the girl?" another asked.
"The High Chancellor's niece is a complication," the leader replied, eyes fixed on the shimmering portal. "If she's with him, we use the Shadow-Dampening Mist. We take the boy, and she 'vanishes' in the chaos. The Crown won't start a war over a missing girl in a Secret Realm 'accident'."
The assassins stood in a perfect semicircle, their breathing synchronized, their killing intent suppressed into a razor-thin edge. They weren't just plotting a kill; they were preparing a harvest.