Third day, evening.
The sun slowly cascaded toward the horizon, washing the sky in layers of fading gold.
William, who now preferred to call himself Seraph, had begun his second training session of the day.
After the strange meal and the comforting presence of the girls, he'd gently urged them to find a safe place to rest. And while basking beneath the sun was undeniably pleasant, he couldn't afford to spend the entire day lazing about.
Too many things demanded his attention, and too much remained unknown.
Holding the old Winged Lord spear in his hand, Seraph tried to channel his spiritual power. But unlike before, where his spiritual power flowed like water in the spear, this time, the flow felt stagnant.
He even feels some resistance from the spear itself.
Why is that if you ask?
Well, the answer lay plainly in front of him:
[Item Information]
Name: ??? (Its name already lost in passage of history)
Grade: Rare (Broken Relic)
Description: A personal weapon forged for a Mythical being. Once wielded by the **** himself, now reduced to a mere shadow of its former glory after the betrayal and fall of its master.
Trait:
Spiritual Enhancement: Increases efficiency and ease of Spiritual Power usage by 20%. Spear Of **: (Broken, Trait Failed to Activate) Originally granted the wielder the ability to channel and manifest powerful sky-aspect attacks, now dormant due to severe damage. Winged Will: (Broken, Trait Failed to Activate) Once granted immense mental fortitude and boosted Spiritual Power regeneration in battle, currently inactive because of the damage. Mystic Affinity: Permanently increases the wielder's Mystic stat by 3% when equipped. ***: ...
The spear's condition wasn't ideal for a relic of its former prestige. However, considering its Rare grade and damaged state, its existing enchantments were still quite powerful, clearly indicating that its crafting materials were exceptional high level.
Unfortunately, the real issue lay deeper. After his first use of the spear the previous night, Seraph had begun sensing rejection from the weapon itself.
The reason was simple yet unchangeable: the spear had belonged to the Winged Lord personally, bound to his identity and essence. Even though Seraph had inherited the Mystical status, Seraph Is not Him, and Not Ever.
And yes, the censored name you might have guessed already was indeed the Winged Lord.
Now, with Seraph's ascension, the Winged Lord's legacy had nearly faded completely, his very history starting to distort and be forgotten by the world itself. This marked the genuine and true fall of a Mythical Being.
After this point, there would be no more chances for revival or rebirth, his name, his identity, will be gone forever.
But, even as Seraph felt his body steadily improving by the second, he remained cautious. Without completely annihilating the remnants of the Winged Lord's Will lingering inside him, he could never truly feel secure.
Drawing inspiration from countless novels he'd read in his previous life, Seraph recalled similar scenarios: divine beings inheriting statuses from fallen divinities, only to suffer lingering influences from the previous holders.
He recognized that a Mythical status wasn't very different from a Divine one; In fact, they likely shared more similarities than differences.
Therefore, it was logical to assume the reason he still couldn't fully regain control of his original body form was precisely due to the Winged Lord's residual Will's interfering within him. A lingering echo of defiance, silently obstructing him, someone who had seized the Mythical status by force, from truly becoming its new master.
Until he fully extinguished that lingering remnant, harmony with his newfound Mythical self would remain out of reach.
Still, he already had several plans brewing in his mind, some quick and radical, others slower and safer.
But let's just say… The feasibility of the quicker approach was highly questionable. Dangerous, even. He hadn't told the girls about it, and he didn't plan to, not even if he was sure he wouldn't drag them into something reckless.
The safer plan, by contrast, was simple and steady. Just keep doing what he was already doing: training, fighting, and strengthening his control over the Mythical power.
But Seraph didn't like that idea.
Not really.
After everything, the battle, the tug-of-war with the Winged Lord's memories, and the maddening influence of the cultists' prayers, he had developed a deep aversion. Not just to the man he had replaced, but to everything tied to his name. Even mentioning the 'Winged Lord's' title left a sour taste in his mind.
This "safe" plan could take months… Maybe even years if the remnant proved stubborn. And he had read enough novels to know that divine remnants didn't just fade away peacefully. A single shard of lingering will could twist a person's mind. Madness, identity loss, or worse, becoming a puppet for someone long dead.
And Seraph?
He had a gut feeling that the worst-case scenario wasn't just a possibility, it was likely.
Which is why the radical plan couldn't be ignored and actually needed to be brought forward. While it was risky, reckless, and untested… but it might just cut the problem at its root.
Still, not today.
Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after that.
First, he needed more control. And More time to adapt. Unless some unexpected help came, he would stay in the course, just a little longer.
With a sigh, Seraph stored the spear back into his inventory. The resistance it gave was subtle, but enough to sour the feeling of holding it.
Instead, he drew out the two greatswords he had claimed from the cultists' loot. Uncommon grade. Nothing special on paper other than the higher durability and sharpness from the common grade. But when he held them in each hand, they felt better. Lighter. And more right.
Because the spear was never truly his.
'Him' is the one that has always been wielding the spear.
Not Seraph. Not the real William. Not the boy from Earth.
The Earth William, and even the William behind his Unique Identity, had always liked swords. Maybe it was the stories, the novels, and the fantasy games that shaped this. Maybe it was just the weight of old dreams.
But here, now, in this strange new world, that dream was no longer a fantasy.
He looked down at the blades in his hands, felt their balance, their grip.
A quiet smile touched his lips.
Finally… he could swing them for real.
…
With a light smile, Seraph stood in silence.
The stone beneath him was still warm from the lingering sun, but now the air had shifted, cooler, and heavier. The golden glow of afternoon had begun to fade, bleeding into the dusky veil of twilight.
Seraph exhaled slowly.
The greatswords in his hands shimmered faintly as he channeled a thin current of spiritual power into them. Not too much. Just enough to feel the weight respond, to feel the flow of energy shift from his chest to his arms, from his arms to the steel, like water through a finely-tuned machine.
The edges of the blades began to hum, not visibly, but audibly, vibrating at a frequency that made the wind stir around him.
"Too fast," he muttered.
He pulled back, letting the spiritual thread recede, calming the pulsing in his veins. Controlling power wasn't about unleashing it. Not at his level. It was about holding it, like gripping a live wire and forcing it to obey.
He tried again.
Inhale. Focus. And Reaching inward.
Spiritual power wasn't like mana in the books he'd read. It didn't just sit there like a pool to be dipped into. It breathed with him. It lived with him.
Each time he summoned it, it pushed back. Not violently, but with warning. Like a beast testing its leash.
This time, he split it. One thread to each hand. A delicate balance. The right blade flared brighter than the left. Too much.
He adjusted.
Sweat beaded on his brow, not from heat, but from the strain of harmony. His Mystical body had strength, yes, but that strength required understanding. There was no brute-forcing this.
So he trained like a swordsman from an ancient tale.
He stepped, slashed, pivoted. Wide arcs. Tight thrusts. Every motion is infused with spiritual discipline. The blades sliced through air with whispers, leaving faint gold trails that vanished a second later.
Then he added more.
He started using footwork from the martial arts he remembered watching online, grounding himself as he turned, letting the spiritual current move with his body rather than ahead of it. The moment his stance faltered, the power flickered.
He corrected.
Again.
And again.
Each repetition refined his movements, until he was no longer a man wielding power, but a vessel shaping it. His wings unfurled once, instinctively, but he folded them back. This was about the basics. About control. No theatrics.
Then he stopped.
He sheathed the energy, letting the blades dim. Closed his eyes.
And for the first time since his awakening…
He felt calm.
Not stillness forced by exhaustion. Not peace born from emptiness.
But the calm of Tranquility.
His body, his breath, and the power within him, no longer three separate things, but pieces of one.
He opened his eyes again.
And just like that, the world around him seemed sharper. The dying light of the day felt warmer. He could hear the faint rustling of leaves half a mile away. The heartbeat of something scurrying underground.
His voice was quiet.
"…I'm getting closer."
He raised the blades again, this time with the faintest smile.
Not as a warrior.
Not as a Myth.
But as someone who had begun to understand…
The world was clearer now.
And he is surprised when he heard the notification of his physical stat improved by one point.
But Seraph wasn't finished.
Ignoring the notification, Seraph focused on the calmest, the tranquility, it was the gateway to something greater. He could feel it, like a second heartbeat beneath his skin. A rhythm that didn't follow his pulse. Something deeper.
He took a breath, and whispered to himself,
"Aura."
Not a spell. Not a chant. Just a word. A focus.
In this world, beyond the branching systems of class and combat, two deeper paths define a person's growth.
The Spirit Path. And the Flesh Path.
They rarely walk together.
Those who sharpen their minds, train their will, and wield power with precision, walk the Spirit Path.
They control elements, shape reality through understanding, and unleash spells that defy the mundane.
Those who temper their bodies, master their instincts, and convert excess spiritual power into something more visceral, walk on the Flesh Path.
They awaken Aura.
Most time Aura is invisible, but as you gain more control over them, they can be visible. Or, the more you pour out your 'Aura' the more visible it is.
It bleeds from the body in waves of color, with shades unique to the soul of its wielder.
Some shine gold, others red like fire, or deep blue like ocean calm.
Aura is not merely energy, Aura is presence. The declaration of existence. The unspoken pressure that shapes the battlefield before a single blow is struck.
It is power forged in flesh, colored by spirit, and honed through battle.
Most choose one path.
Few walk both.
But Seraph… Seraph was never meant to be just one thing.
Still, for now he needs to focus on one thing rather than diverging his focus on many things.
So he chose Aura.
Aura wasn't listed in the system menu; Maybe later. But for now, no status bar, no skill tree, and no flashy description appeared.
But he knows it.
Not only from Earth Novels.
From also 'Him'.
The memories of the Winged Lord. Echoes still embedded in his soul, fragments of battle and belief. In those echoes, there had been mention of something, an extension of self, a projection of spirit not as energy, but as intent.
Aura was not merely spiritual power.
It was an entirely different version of it.
The reason Spear of the Winged Lord leans toward spiritual power is because the Winged Lord itself is a close combat mage. He occasionally uses aura, but it is far weaker than his control toward spiritual power.
Not to mention spiritual power is more versatile than the rigidity of Aura. Still, rigid does not mean it was weak. It means, when you master it, it is enough to smash anything in your path.
By comparison, someone that walks in the path of Spirit(mage, wizard, witch, etc) is someone that has a hundred ways to solve a problem. But for someone in the path of flesh(warrior, fighter, and other physical path) there is only one way to solve anything, One's Aura to solve a hundred problems.
Seraph closed his eyes, and reached inward again, but deeper this time.
Where spiritual power flowed like breath and blood, Aura slumbered in the flesh and bones. It wasn't about channeling, it was about transforming.
He let go.
The air shifted around him.
No glow. No flames. No system message.
But the animals nearby went silent. The insects stopped buzzing. Even the leaves overhead grew still.
A faint pressure rippled outward from his skin. Not heavy, not yet. Just… felt like something was flowing out of him.
His aura stretched thin across the training ground, like invisible fingers brushing the edges of the world. He could sense the curvature of the rock beneath his feet. The density of the trees beyond the ruins. The warmth of the girls playing inside the broken temple.
And the ocean.
The ocean hummed.
"This…" He whispered, opening his eyes slowly, "This is what it means to exist as more than just flesh."
'Aura', a more advanced usage of spiritual power.
It said Aura has always been more of asserting oneself rather than just controlling the force of nature.
He moved again.
The same steps. The same slashes. But now, they left no trails of light. Only shimmer of grey. Yet every movement felt more real. Every swing was sharper, deeper, like it cut through meaning rather than just air.
He stabbed forward, and the rock ahead cracked, not from the blade's edge, but from the weight of grey aura spreading around the sword.
Seraph drew back.
The crack wasn't big. Just a thin fracture, barely noticeable.
But it hadn't come from impact.
It came from Aura.
Using spiritual power may do the same, but that was not inherent usage of spiritual power. And its power will be far weaker than any Aura.
He exhaled slowly.
This was the next step of becoming stronger. Beyond power. Beyond the form.
Aura wasn't just an offense. Not primarily. But to reinforce the power of your body, by extension… influencing and merging the intent of blood and flesh toward something more tyrannical.
It was pressure. It can be something that is like Territorial awareness. And with it, a warrior could dominate a battlefield without lifting a blade.
Combined with his high spirit stats, the effectiveness of this territory will be doubled.
Seraph sheathed the swords and extended both hands slightly, focusing again.
This time, his aura spread wide and thin, casting like a net, skimming across stone and root and ruin. He felt birds take flight in the distance, disturbed by the unnatural ripple in the air. His body remained still, but in his mind, he could see everything within his reach.
Then, with a flick of thought, he pulled the Aura back in, sharpening it. Refining it.
He brought it down like a veil, clinging to his skin, his wings, his gaze.
His body slowly became ablaze with a grey aura.
First Level Of Aura Control, [Cloaking] this will enhance your body defense and explosive power. Making you far more durable and stronger.
At the same time, this was a silent declaration, Like asserting himself to the world.
I Am Here.
And nothing that walks in shadow will take that from Him.
…
Somewhere in the distance, the sky began to dim, the first stars poking through the veil of dusk. The third night was coming.
And this time… He wouldn't just react to the monsters.
He would face them as someone unshakable.
A Myth with an Aura to command.
…
…
…
Back at the makeshift camp, the girls had gathered near the campfire pit, more a glowing heap of half-dried twigs and salty driftwood than anything fancy, but it did the job.
Rei leaned against a broken pillar, munching on a dried fish with the same enthusiasm she used in battle.
"You know," she said mid-chew, "If Seraph doesn't come back soon, I'm stealing one of his greatswords and using it as a rotisserie."
Kei rolled her eyes, "We don't even have meat to roast."
"Then I'll roast a murloc. Or a pebble. I'm quite flexible."
One of the Lambs, the smallest one with wide eyes and a constant look of wonder, looked up from the pile of salvaged herbs she was sorting, "Is it true Lord Seraph can fly to the stars?"
Rei grinned, "With those wings? Probably. But knowing him, he'll punch a star and complain it wasn't showy enough."
Kei sighed, finishing her rearrangement of their meager supplies and brushing her hands, "He's not that dramatic."
"Kei," Rei said, raising an eyebrow, "He made a cult dig their own hearts out with a look."
"…Okay, fair."
The second Lamb, who had been carving tiny symbols into a piece of driftwood, spoke up with an innocent question, "Do you think he's still hungry?"
Rei smirked, "He's a Myth. He probably eats starlight and regrets it."
Kei gave her a look, "Rei."
"What? It's poetic."
The third Lamb peeked out the door, clutching a slightly burnt pot lid like a shield, "I just want to make something edible tomorrow. He said my soup smelled like 'a confused sea ghost.'"
"It did," Kei muttered.
Rei gave the Lamb a thumbs-up, "Proud of you though. It only made the two of us gag this time."
The youngest Lamb smiled, proud anyway.
For a few moments, the five girls sat quietly in their own little campfire bubble, the sea breeze whispering through the open windows. The stars overhead began to emerge, one by one, glimmering with soft light.
Kei eventually broke the silence with a soft murmur.
"…He'll be back soon."
Rei nodded, "Probably glowing again."
"And shirtless," one of the Lambs added dreamily.
They all looked at her.
She blinked, "What? I'm just saying."
The others giggled, and the moment lightened again. Despite the danger outside, despite the night fast approaching, laughter still lived here.
And somewhere, out in the twilight, their Lord was training with blades and aura.
Preparing himself to face the third night soon.
But for now… It was a peaceful moment.
And they clung to it.