Arthur's gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the vast cyclone of white and faintly red mist before him. As the mark on his hand finally dissolved, the swirling mass began to slow. Gradually, impossibly, it came to a complete, breathless stillness.
The fog hung suspended in the endless white expanse, and in its depths he glimpsed the outline of a colossal stone throne. Upon it sat something—some presence—that defied all shape, all comprehension.
Summoning what courage he had left, Arthur's voice came out ragged. "Are you… the Creator?"
No answer came. Only the unbroken hush of eternity pressing against him.
He swallowed, fighting to keep his voice steady.
"Why did you save me?"
When the reply came, it was not spoken. It simply was—reverberating in every corner of the boundless space, in the marrow of his bones and the secret places of his mind.
"It is not your time to die, Arthur Caelum."
The words echoed in a silence deeper than death.
His pulse thundered in his ears. "What is your purpose? What do you want?"
The white eyes within the fog—vast, cold, ancient—narrowed ever so slightly. The gesture alone sent a spear of dread down his spine.
"This world drifted toward ruin while I dreamed. Now I have awakened—and I shall set all things in their order once more."
'Awakened…?' The thought struck him like a hammer. 'A god that has slumbered…'
"And… what do you want from me?"
"It is not what I want from you, but what you will ask of me." The voice seemed to ripple through existence itself, cracking something unseen behind reality. "Soon you will stand at a crossroads. In that hour, you shall ask for my hand—and the toll shall be taken."
Arthur's mouth was dry. "You are a god—and you need something from me?"
"Even a god requires angels, Arthur Caelum."
The fog began to unravel, parting in great billowing veils.
"Now go. The world will not wait for your understanding. When the time arrives, seek me through my vessel."
Before he could draw another breath, his vision shattered like glass. When he came to, he was back in the waking world, drenched in cold sweat. He sat up slowly, his heart laboring against his ribs, his mind a storm of questions. But one thought rang louder than all the rest, tolling in him like a death knell.
'Even a god requires angels…'
Over and over, the words echoed in the hollow of his chest.
…
Leo was still seated on his throne, a tall, unadorned seat of pale stone that overlooked the swirling mist of his domain. He let out a slow breath, trying to steady the lingering rush in his veins. He had made everything he said in the meeting sound deliberate, oracular—like the pronouncements of some hidden prophet. But the truth was, he would need to behave in the coming days as if he'd simply been bluffing, a man who spoke in riddles because he could not see the future at all.
He lowered his gaze to the back of his hand, where faint traces of the mark had finally vanished. After nearly two years spent gathering items and knowledge, the meeting had finally reached its conclusion. He had gained more than he'd ever dared to hope for—information, leverage, and proof of hidden beings—but the entire endeavor had been fraught with danger. Never again, he resolved, would he allow himself to be caught in a place where he could not be certain of his safety. This time, at least, he had escaped unscathed.
He sat in silence for a few more minutes, feeling the unnatural stillness of his domain pressing around him. Then, with a single thought, he left it.
The real world returned in a rush of sensation, the rough weave of the wool blanket draped over his chair, the faint scent of lamp oil, the cool air that had settled during the night. He did not even consider lying down to rest. The memory of Mr. Sage's formless malice—so close, so eager to reach through shadows and end his life—still pulsed like an echo behind his ribs. Sleep would be impossible.
To keep his mind from dwelling on it, he retrieved a heavy leather book from a small chest and set it on the table. Its worn cover was stamped with a sigil of intertwined circles. He opened it to the final chapter and began to read.
The text began by describing the process of domain creation in painstaking detail. It spoke of how the shape of a domain reflected the practitioner's will and imagination, how each domain was a unique extension of the soul. The early shaping of the soul determined everything that followed—its atmosphere, its laws, its strength and weaknesses. Equally important was the stabilization of the connection to the Rules, the primordial archetypes through which power flowed into the domain and back again.
Although Leo read every word carefully, this part was largely a formality for him. His own domain had been shaped—an immense realm of white fog threaded with lines of faint red light, a place that mirrored the far reaches of his own mind and of course Selvanna's mind.
The second part of the chapter delved into the summoning of a domain, the act of pulling it partially or wholly into the material plane. This, the author wrote, was one of the defining abilities of the higher-ranked and those who pursued the Paths. It demanded a staggering quantity of mana—far more than most adepts could ever amass unaided.
But there were methods to bridge that gap. Some practitioners designed their domains with partial summoning in mind. They would bring forth a sliver of their realm first—just enough to channel greater power into themselves. As their strength increased, they would gradually manifest larger portions. But this method had significant limitations. The structure of the domain determined how easily it could be fractured and called forth. Its total mass, the density of its matter, the intricacy of its internal enchantments—each factor multiplied the cost.
For instance, the text explained, conjuring a tower brimming with magical conduits required vastly more mana than summoning a simple wooden hut. Even among smaller constructs, the difference was profound, a blade imbued with layered enchantments demanded exponentially more energy than an ordinary steel sword.
The book then described a second, more brute-force method. Gathering an immense reservoir of mana and pulling a significant portion of the domain into existence in a single decisive act. But such a feat, the author warned, was far beyond the reach of anyone below the A3 Rank. Only those who had fully integrated with their Paths and honed their will to a singular edge could hope to accomplish it.
Finally, there was the third approach, reliance on external reservoirs of power—rare crystals, ancient relics, and other precious items that contained enough mana to bridge the gap between imagination and reality. Sacrificing one of these treasures could establish a momentary link strong enough to anchor part of the domain in the world.
The book briefly outlined a spell designed to support this process—a technique developed by the high mages of the kingdom of magic.
For Leo, only the third method was remotely viable. Even with the aid of such a catalyst, he would be able to summon only the smallest fraction of his domain. It was simply too vast in scope, too dense with layered will.
Yet the rewards were undeniable. When a domain was manifested, the practitioner's bond with the Rules became deeper, more immediate. Their spells grew sharper and more potent. Their reserves of mana swelled beyond ordinary limits. Depending on what they brought forth, they could even create objects that could never exist in the mundane world—creations shaped purely by the logic of their domain.
The text gave a striking example. A mortal craftsman could never forge a sword that could cleave a mountain in a single stroke. But within a domain, where the laws of reality bent to the will of the creator, such a weapon could be made—and if it was summoned, it would retain every impossible quality.
As Leo was reading, through the small window set high in the wooden wall, dawn began to break. Pale beams of light spread across the floorboards, washing the chamber in gray and gold.
Leo closed the book and rested a hand on its cover, his thoughts a churn of possibility. Until now, he had never created anything in his domain that would be useful in this world. But if he meant to survive what was coming, that would have to change.
Right now, he had three goals. The first was to complete his new Blood Slash technique. The second was to learn how to summon part of his domain into the real world. And the third was to master the spells connected to Alexia's room. That last one was still far in the future, but the other two were essential if he hoped to reach A-rank anytime soon.
He stood up and walked out onto the deck. A crisp wind swept across the planks, carrying the scent of salt and distant rain. Arthur was there, leaning against the railing, staring across the endless sea with a troubled look in his eyes.
"What are you thinking about so deeply?" Leo asked, his voice calm.
Arthur didn't answer right away. He exhaled slowly, as if trying to steady himself, then turned to meet Leo's gaze. "I met your god," he said at last. His fingers tightened on the railing. "No…the truth is, I was saved by your god."
For a moment, he studied Leo's face, searching for any flicker of surprise. But Leo only watched him quietly, unshaken.
Arthur let out a short, dry laugh. "I see you already knew."
"I'm his vessel," Leo said simply, as if stating an ordinary fact.
Arthur's expression softened, though the weight in his eyes didn't fade. He turned back to the sea, watching the morning light glint off the waves. A hush settled between them.
Then, after a few moments of silence, Arthur lifted a hand and pointed toward the horizon, where a dark line was just beginning to form.
"There's the next island," he said. His voice was steadier now. "Go wake the crew."
Leo nodded. "Aye aye, captain."
…
Liamond was sitting alone in the association's kitchen, quietly nursing a cup of coffee. The dark liquid was already cold, but he barely noticed. The door creaked open, and Albert stepped in, looking around until his eyes settled on him.
"Li, Captain told me to tell you he needs you in his office."
Liamond frowned slightly. "Why didn't he just use telepathy?"
Albert shrugged. "How should I know? I'm just the messenger."
With a tired sigh, Liamond set his cup down on the table and rose to his feet. He walked down the hall to Edmond's office and rapped twice on the door.
"Come in," Edmond called.
Liamond entered. Rorin was there too, sitting in one of the chairs by the window, arms folded across his chest. Liamond gave them both a respectful bow, then stepped up to the large desk.
"Captain, you wanted to see me?"
"Yes." Edmond lifted a folded piece of parchment from the neat stack before him and held it out. "Here. Take this to that shop on Steam Route. Your order is ready."
Liamond hesitated, his jaw tightening. "Captain, I—"
"You already accepted it," Edmond cut in gently but firmly. His voice softened. "You know you'll need every advantage you can get if you still mean to take your revenge."
Liamond's face twisted with something between resentment and grief. He looked down at the paper in Edmond's hand. He knew exactly what it was, the commission for a mechanical hand—finely crafted, enchanted to bond to his body. So long as he could supply it with mana, it would function almost exactly as his own hand had…and perhaps better in some ways.
For a moment, he didn't trust himself to speak.
Finally, he nodded and took the paper. "Then…if you'll excuse me, I'll head there now."
Edmond inclined his head, granting permission.
As the door closed behind Liamond, the room fell quiet.
Rorin let out a slow breath, staring after him. "He hasn't smiled once since Leo and Frank died."
"I know." Edmond's eyes were heavy. "But someday, he will again."
Rorin looked at the closed door, his expression pained. "I hope so."